


Dancer From The Dance

by klassiandreams



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Anal Sex, Assassination Plot(s), Attempt at Humor, Canon Compliant, Canon Gay Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Light-Hearted, M!Handers, M/M, Multi, Novelization, Oral Sex, Pro-Mage, Sexual Humor, Sexuality Crisis, Slow Burn, Snarky Hawke, Sociological Analyses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-20 22:48:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6028345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klassiandreams/pseuds/klassiandreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before Anders met Hawke, he met the elven Hero of Ferelden in Amaranthine. Thus began his first male romantic relationship. In their times together, the Warden-Commander showed him how oppression operated in structural terms, how to disguise pain with wit, and how justice could be achieved without vengeance. The lessons he learnt from the Warden-Commander serve to aid him in his relationship with Hawke, his role in the mage rebellion in Kirkwall and the events that happen in Dragon Age Inquisition. This fanfic begins in Dragon Age Origins - Awakening and plans to run till the end of Dragon Age Inquisition - Trespasser.</p><p>Also, Anders has a sense of humor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Warden-Commander

**Author's Note:**

> Hi new readers! This is going to be a long long ride! Some things that you can expect: a three part story of Anders with the Warden-Commander, Hawke and post Kirkwall. It’s a slow burn so smut comes quite a bit later. I’m very big on fluff and fanfic that makes you hug your pillows so do expect that.  ^_^
> 
> The premise of this fanfic is highly canonical vis a vis the video games only because I've not read the novels yet. While this is going to be a long ride, there are several things that I can guarantee: Anders will be alive and in a healthy, loving relationship, the Warden is from the City Elf origin (Tabris) pursuing an Assassin/Shadow specialisation, and Hawke's a blood mage, with a sarcastic personality with shades of aggression. Anders is anti-blood magic in line with Dragon Age 2's canon, though I plan to intersperse his brooding personality in DA2, with the levity and wit that he displayed in DA1.
> 
> Title is taken from William Butler Yeats' ‘Among School Children’ as a reference to the intertwining of mages and their powers, Justice and Anders, and the romantic relationships between Anders and Warden/Hawke. The title, Dancer from the Dance is also fitting as it also references eponymous gay novel by Andrew Holleran - and this work is in itself, a gay sexual awakening of sorts too.
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to touchreceptors for being my beta and my partner-in-crime in plotting out the entire trajectory of this fanfic. The amount of work she has done is incredible, especially when we're both in our final years of university and working on our final year thesis and projects. My fanfic blog is at http://dancerfromthedancefanfic.tumblr.com/ where updates and ramblings would be posted there for anyone who is interested! Thank you, enjoy reading and do leave a comment because it gives me feels like nothing else!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reworked on 1/8/2017.

After being locked in the depths of Vigil's Keep's dungeon for several days, Anders found himself harboring a strange appreciation for the darkness. Darkness might seem scary and forbidden to most law-abiding mages, and perhaps for good reason after all. Deepcrawlers, foul fungi, poison spiders and an occasional rage demon would gladly spawn in places where the sun did not reach. But for Anders, the darkness represented refuge and freedom from templar eyes that seek his capture. Not to mention, the dark was also perfect in lust-drenched moments and hidden making-out sessions with eager female apprentices among the shadows of imposing bookshelves. When he had stolen off from the Circle with nothing but a Staff of Evasion and his rapier-sharp wit, it was the darkness that provided him with cover that shielded him from a nation-wide search. And now when he was locked away in this prison cell, the darkness provided some visual relief from his grubby meal and unwashed grime in his cell.

“Seventh attempt at escape, seventh time captured already?”  wondered Anders as he sat, his back hunched over his barely touched meal. “I should really stop making a habit out of that.” He gazed beyond his damp cell, the darkness briefly illuminated by a silver flash of the templar guard’s armour. His name… Biff. Yes that’s it. Just the thought of his name made him hungry and he winced at the growing protests from his stomach which were gnawing within. "No… bad Anders. Templars are not for eating."

“Did you hear that?” A sense of dread crept into the templar-guard’s voice. Anders looked up, surprised. This was the first time Biff had talked to him, aside from occasional contemptuous sneers and threats to kill him if he even muttered a word that sounded like magic.

“My stomach?”

“No you idiot. That sound! It sounds like people runni…”

Begrudgingly, Anders concentrated to listen despite a cloud of fatigue weighing upon his mind. Eventually, a woman’s scream broke through and just as suddenly as it arrived, the scream was abruptly cut off. Rushed sounds of movement became more apparent. People shouting for instructions, a man’s voice yelling for escape. Suddenly, more shouts became audible before they were overwhelmed by strange inhuman shrieks that curled the back of Anders’ neck. Adrenaline began to pump through Anders’ back, a strange sensation coupled by the perpetual lethargy he felt, radiating from his templar-runed manicles.

Panic was palpable in the air.

Biff leapt from his chair and drew his sword from its scabbard, only to drop it onto the granite floor in his state of hurry. “Is this any of your doing!” demanded Biff as he readied his blade. His eyes bulged with fear as it darted rapidly between Anders and the door. “Your apostate friends trying to bail you out?”

“If it is them, it’s particularly clunky of them.”

“You stay here! And don’t move while I check out what’s happening. Maker help me if this is another one of your…”

The wooden door burst open and Anders was pushed back, a wood splinter flying past his cheek and narrowly missing it. A number of genlocks came running into the room, and screeched upon seeing the terrified templar.

“Not quite the escape plan I was thinking of,” muttered Anders. “Let me out, Biff! I can fight!”

“Er… No, I can handle this! I just got to remember my templar training… What was that incantation…”

A translucent blue glow surrounded Biff but even as he seemed to get visibly more pumped up, Anders grew more nauseous by the second. With a yell, the templar raised his sword in a ready position and dashed forward. Anders stood up and gazed upon Biff as he neatly evaded a genlock’s axe and taking advantage of its vulnerability, neatly cleaved its stomach. He continued to do battle, felling several darkspawn though Anders noted that gunlock archers near the door were slowing Biff’s advance in a definitive way, as several arrows lodged themselves around his chest-plate.

A stray arrow grazed Anders’ forehead. Anders' fingers were marked with blood after he drew them away from what appears to be a bleeding cut.  _Shit. Well, looks shallow though._ Instinctively, he raised his right hand to the wound and cast a mild healing spell, only to remember that his powers were suppressed by his manacles. _Double shit._ The hollow feeling in Anders’ stomach began to grow.

Bam! A hurlock had charged at Biff with such great force that his body was flung against Ander’s cell. Anders glanced at Biff; he was unconscious for sure but the force that had propelled Biff had bent a number of his prison bars. The hurlock dashed forward and picked up Biff’s body, before slamming it down violently against the prison floor, and Anders could hear a definitive crack of the skull.

“Erm, stay back now. The magic in my blood doesn’t taste good,” stammered Anders, but he need not have bothered. A sudden unholy shriek reverberated against the granite walls once again, but this time, it appeared to have captured the attention of the genlocks. Anders watched in amazement as the genlocks froze in mid-action and glanced at each other as they quickly shuffled out of the dungeon in rank and file.

That was... nice. But Anders did not have the luxury to bask in his unexpected fortune. As he look around his cell for the darkest shadow to hide, Anders noticed a sliver glint dangling onto Biff’s dead body, against his cell door. Prison keys. It had to be.

"Okay," Anders muttered under his breath, as he tried not to get his hopes up. Freedom was after all, only within an arm's grasp dangling on a dead man's body. "This is perfectly easy.” Anders knelt beside Biff and tried not to vomit. Biff’s templar helmet were leaking out blood and his head lulled back in an unnatural position with his slit throat. And the smell was just like his breakfast. Only bloodier.

This was it or never. Anders had to contort his arms through the bars, and work the key ring off his bloodied belt. The dull feeling in his mind did not help much either, together with the worry that some gunlock would come running back into the dungeon again but eventually, Anders succeeded. He threw the manacles into his dinner dish and within a few minutes upon stepping out of his cell, he could feel the familiar rush of the Fade into his body. As he stepped out of the dungeon room, Anders felt the first burst of excitement that he had experienced ever since he entered into the castle. At least, until he saw a fat little hurlock waddling down the corridor outside his cell and spotted him through the open door. And then he felt his excitement dissipating like a limp penis.

_Oh, shit again._

Anders retreated back into his place of capitivity, only to be closely followed by the evil looking hurlock It screamed out in a high pitched tone, and before more darkspawn could be summoned, Anders cast the first spell that came to his mind. A cone of fire emerged from his palms. The hurlock yelled in pain as Anders maintained his concentration for as long as he could until he was sure that the hurlock was of no danger and collapsed to the ground.

From the door, there came the sound of rushed footsteps. Anders turned and saw two armoured men who ran in, and stopped at the dead darkspawn that laid beneath Anders’ feet.

At this moment, Anders knew how the scene of a dead templar that laid behest of a handsome mage must look. His life was a tragic compilation of sad stereotypes.

“Er…” said Anders pleasantly as he lifted his hands, palms facing forward in a sign of peace. “I didn’t do it.” 

_Please don't be templars please don't be templars please_

“Erm… All right?” said the man dressed in green light armour as he removed his helmet. There was something about his voice that sounded different from usual speech, his articulation… An elf, and a relatively young one at that. His eyes were forest green, and bore an alertness that seemed neither hostile nor welcoming. His mouth reinforced his youthful look, curled up in a smile that betrayed a certain weariness.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong.” shrugged Anders.  “I’m not broken up about him dying, to be perfectly honest. Biff there made the funniest gargle when he went down.” 

“Not too fond of templars, huh.”

“Oh I know I know, most people enjoy being kicked in the head to be woken up every morning. Me, I’m just so picky.”

“Warden-Commander, be careful. That man is not a Grey Warden,” urged the person next to the elf. When he removed his helmet, Anders realised how mistaken he was. That was no man. She was a lady, albeit dressed in decidedly manly armour; with a resolute manly disposition.

“You weren’t here when we arrived. I would have remembered such a lovely woman as yourself.” smiled Anders. What a vision of beauty she was! Her face was sculpted beautifully, as though chiselled out of marble and her voice possessed a deep yet lyrical quality, as though it was enchanting the sparrows to fly out of their nests. What a sight of pure perfection! Or maybe Anders was just horny.

Unfazed by the compliment, she replied curtly. “My name is Mhairi. I was a knight in the King's service but when the call came for volunteers to rebuild the Order, I signed up as a Grey Warden recruit. And this is The Warden-Commander, Arl to Amaranthine and Lord of Vigil's Keep."

He made a polite bow. "Oh. Well, congratulations,” said Anders, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. He failed. “It’s just, I didn’t expect an elf to be the Warden-Commander and all.”

“Sorry for not living up to expectations,” said the Warden-Commander casually, though his eyes remained alert. That’s nice; Anders thought, to be around someone with a sense of humor again. "Who are you?”

“Name is Anders. I was from the Ferelden Circle and we were just stopping here on our way back to the tower. Just a short rest, they said, and now they are all dead. Such a shame.”

“So you’re not a Grey Warden? You’re an apostate?”

“That’s what they call someone who doesn’t believe in being chained up in a tower, so yes, I am. The templars captured me and were taking me back. And then, you know, darkspawn attacked. So, could be a sign, yes?” said Anders hopefully.

“A  _very_  convenient sign,” the elf remarked, as his eyebrows arched up.

“Isn’t it though?” beamed Anders as he hoped that his charming demeanour would lessen the awkward suspicions that were hanging in the air. “The Maker moves in mysterious ways.” 

It did not work. Anders sighed. “Look I suppose I could help you with the rest of these darkspawn… or you could let me go. They’ll send more templars to find me eventually. They always do.”

There was a deliberate pause as they eyed Anders up and down intently, their gazes wandering from the top of his blonde hair to down his gruel-covered shoes. Normally, Anders would love being objectified by unknown strangers, but a dead templar of the floor and rotting darkspawn in a dungeon hardly make for arousing conditions. Finally, the elf released a huge sigh. “Look, there are survivors of Vigil's Keep that are running towards a safe zone near the entrance. If you head out the door and turn to the left, you should be safe there.” With that, the elf walked away.

Anders could not believe it. “Wait, that’s it? You’re letting me go?” said Anders incredulously.

“Well I’m certainly not going to feed you.”

Anders was not the only one surprised. “Warden-Commander! You cannot be serious! He is an apostate and a danger to the citizens of Ferelden. It is our duty to apprehend him and to turn him over to the templars!” Mhairi protested.

“Use your eyes, recruit,” the elf said with barely-concealed impatience. “Those are spirit healer's robes that he’s wearing. Releasing him to the public only endangers the jobs of physicians. Besides, The Grey Warden’s code of neutrality insists that we help everyone; apostates included.”

“He is free to go,” the elf continued. “Though I harbour no illusions that he will be captured within a day. News were already spreading that Vigil’s Keep was under a darkspawn attack and templar reinforcements all around the region are arriving here as we speak.” The elf looked at Anders and his face bore a sign of urgency that left no room for questioning. “You may wish to leave here as soon as possible.”

“Oh that’s rather marvellous of you! I’ll just slip out the way they came then.”

Mhairi and the Warden-Commander left the room, leaving Anders to stand alone in a room filled with rotting darkspawn and one very dead Biff. This was his chance to finally escape! Anders ran towards the entrance of Vigil’s Keep, invigorated by a renewed sense of freedom. He could still make it! Amaranthine is only a day's journey away if he traveled without rest. Furthermore, the night was dark and there's enough darkness to dodge and evade the line of sight of anyone who could be tracing him. The fleeing survivors would also provide a convenient distraction to slip through the reach of the Chantry. Anders could not believe his luck and he was not about to squander it away now.

However as he stepped out of the entrance, he felt his stomach knot and constrict. Injured survivors laid by the courtyard and judging from some the wounds, it wouldn't be long before they succumbed to the beckoning of the Fade. Anders could feel the familiar pangs of his heart, calling him to help them. Shouldn't he help with finding survivors or at least assist with some of the healing efforts?  Is he enough of a jerk to abandon them?

Yes he is.

Resolutely, Anders turned his back away from them and ran towards the gate, as he averted his eyes from the dead and dying all around him. Upon reaching the grim-looking gates, already stained with blood, he released a groan in despair. All he could see in front of him were flatlands, empty and barren with no places to hide. He could be wandering on feet for hours and still be spotted from the Keep’s watchtower. And his staff was hardly inconspicuous to say the least.

Anders took a deep breath and contemplated his possibilities for escape. He could run away now, though the odds of being recaptured by the approaching Templars were high, and be thrown back into prison with an additional charge for his attempt to escape. Or he could stay and fight, and then get recaptured by the templars. Either way, Anders realised, it was a double bind. There was no way for him to evade the templar’s grip, at least for now. A better option would be to bide his time and plan for a better escape. The thought of not immediately dashing off to the nearest harbor and sailing for Tevinter hardly sounded appealing to Anders but it was certainly the lesser of two evils for now. At least while he was in the Keep, he could wait and hide out until the templars around this area had cleared out.

_But that means it involves helping the Warden clear out the darkspawn._

Anders sighed and felt his heart lurched as he made a U-turn. Knowing that he would regret it, he forced himself to head back into the Keep, past dozens of fallen darkspawn and Keep occupants. As he approached the inner grounds of the building, the walls of the Keep bore visible signs of an explosion and dubious murky spurt that smelt of darkspawn entrails laid across the floor _._

_Strange. Doesn’t seem to be an Inferno spell._

Anders proceeded and climbed the stairs, only to traverse the main passageway up into the external parapet walk and the bartizan. Bodies of darkspawn laid lifeless along the path with clean dagger marks, and Anders gingerly stepped over them.

_The Warden-Commander made light work of these… Must be fun at parties with those dagger tricks._

He came to an inner keep guardhouse, and stopped once he came across voices within it. As he stepped into the cover of the shadows, he strained his ears and identified the Warden-Commander’s and that lass; Mhairi’s voices, along with two other voices that were unrecognisable.

“We’ve… only had a moment’s warning before they were on us, Commander.” A male voice said with great difficulty, strained by deep, painful breathing. “The seneschal ordered a counter-attack, but they came out of nowhere! There’s one with them, a darkspawn who talks, his magic is powerful.”

“A talking darkspawn? The lad must be delirious.” It was an unfamiliar, gruff voice.

“There’s something in my blood! It hurts!” Anders stole a peek and saw a man lying by the corridor, with a sword gash so deep that it was beyond even his training as a spirit healer… The man’s face was deeply sunken and his eyes had turned a peculiar shade of grey; signs of blight poisoning.

“He is too far gone.” said the Warden-Commander gently. His hands were placed on the injured man’s shoulder. “Put this man out of his misery.”

“Commander! There must be some way…” protested Mhairi.

“It’s okay, Mhairi. I’m not getting any better. Commander, it was an honour to meet you. I wish I could have fought at your side just once.”

“I will avenge you, Rowland. I swear it.” Mhairi asserted.

Anders heard the sound of metal meeting flesh, a sudden gasp, and the release of slow breathing - and then the Warden-Commander’s voice, harsh.

“Come out! Whoever is at the door.”

Sheepishly, Anders revealed himself before the Warden-Commander, Mhairi and what appears to be another warrior who had joined their party since he last saw them. If Anders was not caught in this grim situation, he would had burst out laughing. The warrior was a short, red-haired dwarf dressed in black armor, whose beard was braided in such an intricate fashion that it reminded Anders of female sheepherders as they yodel down the hills of Anderfels. 

The Warden-Commander bore a quizzical look. “Can’t take a hint I see.”

“Well…” stammered eloquent Anders. “I was already on the road and I thought… well, I couldn’t just leave. Not yet. So I came to help. And kill darkspawn. They kind of go together, I hear.”

“If you wanted to help, you can heal some of the injured survivors at the courtyard,” pointed out the Warden-Commander. “What can you do asides from spirit healing?”

Anders was taken aback at the specifics of mage-ery that the Commander was acquainted with. “Well, I am decent at some primal magic if you make me really angry I guess.”

“Huh. Comedian mage. That’s a useful specialty I bet. Thought they died out.” growled the dwarf.

“About as useful as smelling like whiskey vomit, I imagine.” said Anders.

The Commander paused and appeared deep in thought. “I guess we do need a spirit healer if the battle gets tough.” he admitted. “And primal magic could come in useful. But do stay clear of the fighting." The commander gestured at the red-haired dwarf who had already begun drinking a bottle of wine from his pack. "This is Oghren, a dwarven warrior and an old friend. We are well aware of the risks involved in battle operations like these, but a civilian’s life is one I do not wish to endanger. Stay behind the battle lines and offer as much assistance as you can from a safe position.”

Also, catch.” The Warden-Commander unbuckled his belt and tossed it towards Anders which he caught with some difficulty. It was a potion belt; filled with health and lyrium potions. “I appreciate your assistance.” he added almost as if in afterthought.  

“Thank me later.” said Anders. “And I want a little pony. Oh, and would I be addressing you as Commander?”

“You can.” said the Warden-Commander as he walked on before pausing in mid-sentence. “Or you can call me Tabris.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anders choosing to return back to the Warden when given the option to escape, is canonical in the game.
> 
> Oghren's braids were a reference to The Sound of Music.


	2. Initiations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to touchreceptors for being my reliable beta despite having a thesis to write! Thank you!
> 
> And thank you once again for reading this fic. It means a lot to me. :)
> 
> Reworked on 11/7/2017

Darkspawn entrails were definitely not a good decorative choice for the Keep, Anders decided. The stench was not so bad really; it had the distinctive odor of sawdust and bruffalo meat, only to be left out in the sun for too long. Anders decided that it wasn’t too repulsive if he set his mind to ignoring it. The sight of human bodies, littered by the dozens around the Keep however…

He averted his gaze from the bodies and kept his eye on Mhairi, as he struggled to keep up with the group’s pace. Maker, she really did have a nice rack. At certain moments, Anders caught her glancing at the Warden-Commander with a steely determination. Not that Anders could blame her; the Commander was not bad-looking if you were into some form of elven fetish. The height difference though, Anders concluded, would probably make for awkward sex.

The Commander… Anders could not decide where to place him. After all, his offer to release him was something that made Anders more than a little disconcerted. Throughout all his escapes, the only people he could trust were mercenaries or thieves. It was not due to an inherent benevolence that they possessed, but it was thanks to his usefulness as an apostate healer that he’d managed to elude the templars for so long with their assistance. The hand of the Chantry was far-reaching and unforgiving, and every single villager he had met believed that mages and freedom went together as well as fishes and horse saddles. The Commander had no reason to depart from this widespread Chantry propaganda, but…

“The darkspawn are probably beyond this door… Prepare yourselves.” The Warden-Commander’s face remained solemn. His eyes searched for Anders. “And Anders, stay clear from battle.”

“I know, I know. I’m too pretty to die.”

“Nug-smackers. Let’s go and introduce some darkspawn to my foot!” Oghren slurred, readying his axe. Anders delicately shifted his position away from the dwarf, whose drunken appearance seem to validate every racist statement he has ever heard about dwarves.

“No, Oghren. Let’s take them by surprise. We move in quietly, and when I give the signal, we attack.” Tabris’ expression grew strangely alert, and his eyes began to narrow with a specific focus. His expression was so intense that it almost seemed as though his eyes were glowing, like yellow fires in the dark night.

“Great Ancestors, not this again. What’s wrong with charging into battle like real warriors, and knocking some skulls out?”

“Let’s just try to have as few casualties as we can.”

With great caution, Tabris opened the door and crept towards the shadows of the overarching tower. It was the parapet walk of the Keep and Anders could hear the strength of the storm wind in the slam of wooden crates across the wall, the creak of trees bending under its force. A violent gust whipped Anders ponytail across his face and he could taste the sea-salt dampness in the air. Probably best then, to skip with the Fire spells.

Tabris gestured the group to follow him and across the parapet, Anders could see several darkspawn near the end of the walk, and a man held at swordpoint by a genlock.

Anders could barely make out the words. “Be taking this one, gently. We are wishing no more death than is necessary,” said an armored hurlock.

“It is talking!” Anders whispered in childlike excitement. “Maybe we could capture this one and make it do tricks!”

“Necessary? As if your kind has ever done anything else!” the man spat at the armored hurlock.

“Wait for my cue.” Tabris said in a low voice. “Oghren, the armored one. Mhairi, the darkspawn at the end. Anders, support.”

 “What about that genlock with the sword?” Anders suggested.

“What about it?”

Tabris rolled out from the shadows and threw a dagger straight into that genlock’s throat. The genlock let out a sudden gasp and faltered from the kneeling man. “We’re under attack!” hissed the armored hurlock. He raised his axe and bolted straight towards Tabris. But Tabris had already disappeared from the battlefield and was nowhere to be seen.

“Charge!” Oghren laid out a war cry and made a cleaving attempt at the armored hurlock with his axe. The hurlock dodged his blows, parrying and landing a hit across Oghren’s head. There was a loud genlock scream to Anders’ right. He turned and saw Mhairi engaging with four genlock archers in close combat. Drawing on his inner mana reserves, he unleashed a chain lightning spell towards the genlock archers, which immobilised them with every arch. Suddenly, Tabris emerged from the shadows and lunged at the battling hurlock’s back, plunging two cruel-looking daggers between its shoulder-blades. Anders could have sworn he was imagining it, but it seemed as though Tabris’ silhouette had become blurred momentarily. The hurlock let out a sharp screech and swiped Tabris across the parapet bridge, pushing him towards a precipitous fall over the walls.

“Tabris!” Anders rushed over to Tabris to find him looking slightly dazed, his feet dangling precariously over the parapet. He pulled Tabris to his feet, offering him a red potion. “Drink this.”

Tabris uncorked the glass vial and drank, his eyes regaining focus with each sip. “I’m fine. Help Oghren.”

Anders looked and saw Oghren using his axe to fend off the heavy blows of the hurlock. Anders tapped into the Fade and called on the Spirit of Fortitude to surround Oghren with healing energy. A pale yellow mist enshrouded Oghren and he visibly straightened. He deflected the hurlock’s next incoming blow. In the split second where the hurlock had an opening Oghren tightened his grip on his axe and slashed the hurlock across its hips. 

The hurlock let out a pained screech - the cue that Tabris needed. He reappeared behind the hurlock, carrying what seemed to be daggers dripping with an ominous purple liquid in each hand. He lunged at the hurlock and slid one dagger into its neck, causing it to flail violently, dropping its axe. With his remaining dagger, Tabris slipped the blade between its ribs. For an instant Tabris stood locked, face to face, with the darkspawn he'd just killed--a grotesque white head with pale skin and vicious, mad blue eyes. Outrage and disbelief pulsed out at him… and drained away. The eyes went blank.

Tabris removed his daggers from the dead hurlock’s body and sheathed them. Mhairi had dispensed with the genlock archers and was helping the human survivor to his feet.

“Is everyone okay?” Tabris asked.

“Commander I owe you my life.” said the grey-haired survivor, panting heavily. His hair looked dishevelled and his wizened face was marked with lines of stress and worry.

“Did the darkspawn hurt you?”

“Not before you stepped in; but I'm afraid the same can't be said for the few Wardens stationed here. I saw the last of them being taken down by that... thing about there." Varel glanced at the armored hurlock in revulsion. "That was the darkspawn leader; without it, the darkspawn will ungroup and it’ll be easier to deal with the rest of them in the hinterlands.”

“If we hadn’t killed all of them already.” Tabris narrowed his eyes, his eyes still glowing. “Though, how could they have possibly sprung up on Vigil’s Keep? Talking darkspawn or not, the Grey Wardens should be able to detect them from a mile away. Had the Orlesian Grey Wardens arrived?”

“No, ser. We can only hope they are unscathed from the darkspawn attacks. I will send out a search party once everything is in order. And forgive my lack of introductions. I’m Varel, seneschal of Vigil’s Keep. I am to aid you in ruling the lands of Amaranthine, Hero of Ferelden.”

“I suppose Warden-Commander will do, Varel. That name still creaks a little every time I turn around when someone calls me that,” said Tabris with a wince. “And the arling belongs to the Wardens, not me.”

Maker, hold up. Anders could not believe his ears. The Hero of Ferelden? The legendary warrior who defeated the Archdemon and saved Ferelden from the Blight was an elf who looked as though he barely emerged out of puberty?  

“But as Commander of the Grey, you are the equivalent of our arl as well.”

“Commander, I hate to interrupt.” Mhairi pointed out at the incoming battalion approaching the Keep. “But there’re more soldiers on the road. It looks like we have more company.”

“We should go greet them.” Tabris answered simply. “Hopefully they’re more hospitable than our previous guests.

 -

“So... urm, Warden-Commander?” Anders asked while making the descent from the parapet back to the Keep grounds. 

“You know, you can call me Tabris,” said the Commander, his tone inquiring.  Anders was surprised that he seemed to be... mildly approachable now. His tone was less solemn, and his posture was slightly relaxed; a far cry from the terse expression that he was carrying earlier on.

“So, you’re the Hero of Ferelden? You know, the one who killed the big nasty archdemon that goes rawr?”

“Who else do you think could be the Warden-Commander of Ferelden, you nughead.” snarled Oghren. “When there’re now only two Wardens in all of Ferelden, and one of them is sitting on the throne?”

“Well, my apologies," said Anders shortly. "It's hard to recognise him because he looks _so_ intimidating now."

“What, I don’t look the part? Or are they still describing me as six feet tall with red bloodied eyes and fire coming out of my nose?”

“Well, firstly the drawings that they made of you on the Chantry board kind of made you look like a portly little human with a particular fondness for ale. I didn’t even know that the Hero of Ferelden was a city elf.”

“Figures the Chantry would do that.”  Tabris gave a wry smile.

“Secondly, it’s the face. You look like you’re barely 18.”

“That’s not too far off; I’m 19 actually. It was several days after my 18th birthday that I became a Grey Warden and we killed the Archdemon three months after that.”

“Okay…” Anders interjected. “We definitely know you're a modest man.”

“No disputes there.” Tabris agreed. He bent his head and neatly removed his helmet in one fell swoop, revealing a set of messy blond waves underneath. “Helmet head?” Tabris asked with a grimace.

“Yeah…” Anders did not know how to respond towards an Archdemon-slaying blond elf asking for hair critiques.

Tabris frowned and combed his fingers through his hair. “But I do owe you Anders, back at that battle. I’m thankful that you stayed, even though you didn’t have to.”

“Sure,” said Anders absentmindedly, half-distracted by Tabris’ hand gestures. There was a strange hypnotising quality to it, and the sound of his fingers meeting his hair produced a faint musicality that seem to draw Anders in. But then, Anders had hardly met many male elves. All of the elven servants in the Tower were female, and many elven students of magic tend to form their own cliques - suspicious as they were of human intent. “What can I say? It’s probably because I’m bad at the “fugitive on the run” thing, having been captured for like the seven thousand five hundred and eighteenth time.”

Tabris nodded and smiled. “Yeah, we need to work on that. I’ll see if I can get you a horse; you might run faster then.”

“Awww, a pony for little Anders? That’s…” Anders was caught in mid-sentence as he entered the Keep’s main grounds, surrounded by templars with nowhere to run.

 --

The sound of a war horn introduced another contingent of knights that marched majestically into the Keep’s ground. Even though he knew it was ludicrous, for a moment Anders wondered if this entire platoon of templars were here simply to capture him. If not for the fact that Anders was trembling in his boots, he could almost feel loved by all the attention.

A stoic man dressed in gold and silver heavy armor was leading the contingent. He had a sardonic smile similar to Tabris’ although his eyes seemed worried. He scanned the entire grounds as though seeking to find his long-lost lover out at sea and when his eyes rested on Tabris, his eyes visibly brightened.

“On your knees, Ser mage!” Mhairi hissed at him. “That’s King Alistair!”

Tabris and Varel were already in kneeling positions. “Your Majesty.” Tabris bowed respectfully.

“Oh stop mocking me, old friend.” said Alistair, as he helped Tabris up. “You’re not fooling anyone; we all know you had the better deal.” Alistair looked around at all the darkspawn carnage surrounding them. “It looks like I’ve arrived a bit late. Too bad; I’ve rather missed the whole… darkspawn killing thing. I wanted to come and give the Wardens a formal welcome and I certainly wasn’t expecting this. What’s the situation?”

“What darkspawn remained here have fled, your Majesty.” replied Varel. “The Grey Wardens who had arrived from Orlais also appeared to be either dead or missing.”

“Missing? As in, taken by the darkspawn? Do they even do that?”

“I do not know, your Majesty. I only know that we cannot account for all the Wardens; and that some of the darkspawn had become capable of speech.”

Alistair stared at Varel in incredulity as though he was told that there would be no cream puffs for dessert. "It's true, Alistair." sighed Tabris.

"Well, that's like shit piled on top of shit." Alistair said with a tight grimace. "Please tell me that they do at least have a good singing voice." 

"This is serious, Alistair." The Warden-Commander replied grimly. "All of this time, we've assumed that the darkspawn were operating on instinct and bloodlust. If they're capable of speech, it's logical to assume that they would be capable of rational thought - employing strategies, making calculated risks, the possibilities are disturbing to say the least.”

"But at least the Hero of Ferelden is still here and alive. That’s something right?” Alistair smiled in clear relief.

“I’m fine Alistair, but this makes things difficult.”

“That’s a bit of an understatement, isn’t it? Oh boy, you have quite the task ahead of you. Really; I would like to help you fight the darkspawn but if the darkspawn are becoming more organised, preparations must be made for the whole of Ferelden as well.”

“Hey” Oghren interjected. “What am I? Chopped nug livers?”

“From the smell, that’s not a bad guess.” Anders replied automatically.

Oghren glared at him. “I came here to join the Grey Wardens and from the looks of it, you could use the extra hands! Now where’s the giant cup? I’ll gargle and spit!”

“You’re not allowed to spit, I think.” Tabris drawled. It seemed to Anders as though a familiar group dynamic was taking place; one that excluded him.

“Heh,” Oghren winked. “That’s what I always say.”

“I… suppose all are welcome, in this dire time.” Mhairi relented.

Anders shrugged. “Joining the Wardens, hey? Well good luck with that.”

“King Alistair! Your Majesty, beware!” declared a white-haired female templar who stood at Alistair’s side. Anders had noticed since her entry into the Keep that her face looked as though it had caught the persistent waft of mabari poo. “This man is a dangerous criminal!”

“Oh Rylock, the dwarf is a bit of an arse, but I wouldn’t go that…”

The templar, Rylock pointed a heavy, metallic glove finger at Anders. “I mean him! This is an apostate whom we were in the process of bringing back to the Circle to face justice!” She gave Anders a heavy glare, as though the waft of mabari poo was all his fault.

“Oh, please. The things you people know about justice would fit into a thimble. I’ll just escape again, anyhow.”

“You know, the first thing we’ll do when we get to Aeonar is to cut off your clever tongue.” With hastened steps, Rylock stepped past the King and the Hero of Ferelden and grabbed Anders’ by his front robes, wrestling him off the ground. Anders dropped his staff in shock and struggled to breathe. “Just breathe, you’ve been through worse,” thought Anders. “Just think of this as foreplay.”

“Not so talkative now are you, apostate?” The expression on her face was horrifying. It was a strange combination of hostility, spite and bloodlust. “Now we know what happened to the other templars. I will see you hanged for what you’ve done here, murderer! Or perhaps some time in Aeonar ought to teach you some respect for the templar order.”

Anders coughed weakly, and struggled to reply. “Murderer? But those templars were—oh, what’s the use? You won’t believe me anyhow.” This was humiliating – the army of templars, the King, the warden-recruits… the Commander, were all looking at him.

“Let my healer go before I break your neck.” The voice was so chilling that everyone, including Rylock involuntarily flinched. Anders was dropped onto the ground without a warning. When he looked up, he saw Tabris and Rylock locked in an eerie, unflinching stare before Rylock backed away, equal in fury and humiliation. Looking deeply at Tabris’ expression, Anders could not believe that it was him a few moments ago, a 19 year old elf who asked for hair opinions.

“It seems…” Alistair interjected in a careful manner, “there isn’t much to say. Unless… you have something to add, Commander?”

“I do.” An expression that he could not fathom flitted over Tabris’face. “I hereby conscript this mage into the Grey Wardens.”

“What?” Rylock screamed, and readied her sword at Tabris. “No!”

“That’s the Hero of Ferelden you’re about to wave your sword at, templar.” King Alistair stated flatly. “Sheath your sword at once or be judged for treason.” 

Rylock turned her gaze away as she did so. Anders stood up, dizzy and confused at everything that was happening.

“Anyway, I believe the Grey Wardens still retain the Right of Conscription, no? I will allow it.” Alistair declared and gave a wink so slight at Tabris that Anders could not be sure if it had happened.

“If… if your Majesty feels it is best…” Rylock muttered with her head bowed. Just as she walked away, Anders could see a menacing scowl locked underneath her jaw, and her hands were closed in tight fists. Whatever was coming, Anders knew that this was not over.

King Alistair shrugged his shoulders with an expression that could be best described as aloofness. “Oh well.”

“Ha! Way to go, kid! Welcome aboard!” Oghren boomed, and gave a heavy pat to Anders’ back but he was not listening.

“Well, anything’s better than being locked away in a tower for sure,” replied Anders, unsure of what it all meant. 

“Oghren, there’s still the Joining you know.” Tabris reminded.

“Well, if you have everything under control, I will need to take my leave.” said Alistair. He turned to Tabris and his tone softened. “I hate having to ask you to do this, friend. I know it’ll be so much more interesting for you to be back at court.”

Anders found himself giving the most convenient cough at this particular time, catching Varel’s attention. “I profess I find myself missing the finer points of this conversation.” Anders whispered.

“Well… it’s nothing really.” Varel replied in an uncomfortable manner that was far from reassuring. “King Alistair had made the Warden-Commander his Court Chancellor, and the Arl of Vigil's Keep. In the first year of his rule, the King attended court frequently with the Warden-Commander who helped… shall we say, deter any potential challenges to his leadership. I understand that there are merely great friends.”

“Don’t worry Alistair, I’ll be fine.” assured Tabris. 

“See? This is why I trust you. You kick ass better than I do.” laughed Alistair, as he grabbed Tabris playfully in a neckhold and ruffled his hair with his knuckles.

 “Ouch – ow – gerroff me, Alistair! What will your knights think?” said Tabris as he tried to break from Alistair’s unyielding grip.

“Not just the knights.” Oghren muttered sourly.

Alistair released him and his eyes bore a distinct sparkle. “It’s too bad you’re the only Grey Warden we can spare at the moment but I know that with you, I have most capable hands in Ferelden to deal with the vestiges of the Blight before the situation grows out of control. And keep me updated with the situation and whatever’s happened to the rest of our friends; won’t you? I know that you’re still keeping tabs on all of them.”

“I’ll try my best, though Leliana had been hard to contact,” said Tabris with a frown. It was still disorienting to know how fast Tabris could switch back to normalcy from his intimidating self. “And she will want to know whatever’s happened to the Orlesian Wardens as well.”

“It’s definitely troubling, and we had enough problems with the Orlesians already. Did you know that they are sending a royal delegation of female suitors next week?” Alistair shuddered. “Every man’s fantasy I presume, but I should get to work on chasing them away now.”

“Let me know if the Orlesians are giving you a hard time and I’ll send down an assassin or two. Or maybe Zevran, since I hear Orlais is beautiful at this time of the year. Loads of courtly intrigue, dinner poisoning, sex scandals and the apple trees all in blossom. Not too different from Antivan aristocracy I hear.”

“That…may be necessary. Maker watch over you, Tabs.”

“Take care of the alienage for me, my King.”

As Alistair left the Keep with his templar contingent, Tabris turned towards the Grey Warden recruits. “So, there’s the matter of the Joining. Since there’s dead darkspawn everywhere, we can start the Joining now, before their bodies disintegrate anyways.”

“I think that would be most wise, ser. I’ll prepare the ritual.”

“Thank you, Varel. The rest of you may proceed to the Hall though I would like to have a quick word with Anders, if you don’t mind?”

“What, me?” Anders stared at Tabris blankly.

“Yes, Anders, you.” Tabris replied pointedly before moving away. Feeling like a schoolboy awaiting discipline from the schoolmaster, Anders followed Tabris to a secluded corner besides the fountain of the Keep.

“Erm I know that I’m ridiculously handsome and all that, but this is hardly the time for seduction…” started Anders.

“Don’t be silly.” said Tebris, even as his mouth showed hints of a smile. “You know, I did tell Alistair that I’m going to make you a Grey Warden, but if you want to leave now, you can.” Tabris grew serious again.

“What… Why?”

“I only said that to get rid of that templar, Rylock. And I’ve worked with her, back in Denerim. She is… most unpleasant in her quest to make Denerim a mage-free city.” Tabris bore a visible sign of disgust on his face. “It’s not just about apostates to her. She would have templars replace the city guards like what she has already done to the King’s infantry to extend the Chantry’s hold over the court.”

Heat crept up the back of his neck, but all Anders could manage was a weak joke. “Well, that’s not all bad if they transform Denerim into another Circle of Magi. You know, we do have secret masturbation parties.”

No chuckles. Anders sighed, tired to even feel helplessness. “Is there anything you can do to stop her?”

“Believe me, I tried but the Chantry is more powerful than any man, Anders. And Alistair was a templar in his youth; a fact that the Chantry had raised repeatedly to solidify their status within the court. So if Rylock has her eyes on you, I know she will not stop until she gets what she wants and there are only two options for you now.”

Anders was almost afraid to ask. “What are they?”

“Out of Ferelden. There’s a ship in Amaranthine that takes you straight to Kirkwall. You could stay there, or head deeper into the Free Marches, or the Imperium if you wish to.”

“What’s the second option?”

 Stay here and become a Grey Warden. You won’t have to run anymore for the rest of your life, you’ll have proper meals and equipment, and you will be paid on time.”

“What’s so bad about that?” asked Anders, relieved. “For a moment there I thought you didn’t want me around. And here I thought we were getting along so well…”

“Anders, being a Grey Warden is no luxury,” said Tabris quietly. “I’m under vow not to divulge anything, but I think I’m allowed to say that most Wardens don’t live beyond another 20 years past their Joining. It’s a curse that we have to bear, in order to do the job that we do.”

He continued: “Truth be told, I would rather not have anyone join the Grey Wardens without complete consent, and that is only possible if another viable choice is offered. Most who join the Grey Wardens are often the weak, the poor, the desperate, and the criminal. They joined the Grey Wardens because they have nothing left, and nothing to lose. It makes for lousy morale, poor teamwork. High levels of resentment against the Order…”

Tabris' gaze was indecipherable. Unflinching. “If you are to give up your life to the Wardens, I want it to mean something to you.”

Anders thought about it. It would be nice to run away to Kirkwall and start a new life there. But even then, he knew that he could never lead a public life, and apostates often lived the rest of their lives on the run, which meant he could never stay in a single place for long. When Anders thought about that, he was surprised to discover that there was a hidden resignation about it all. Most of all, he was tired. He was tired of how he was always at the mercy of either templars, or “associates” who could turn him in at any moment. He was tired of double-guessing all his friendships on the road for ulterior motives and personal gain. He was tired of saying goodbye to people and places that meant something to him, because standing still was dangerous, and he was tired of running.

Maybe he doesn’t have to run anymore.

He looked at Tabris, whose eyes remained intently devoid of any emotion that might sway his decision.

“I would like to stay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The line “mages and freedom went together as well as fishes and horse saddles” is inspired from Gloria Steinem’s quote: “A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.” Would have used bicycles in there as well, but they probably do not have bicycles in Dragon Age, do they? ;)
> 
> 2\. “Ouch – ow – gerroff me, Alistair!” is a line that was taken from Ron Weasley in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.


	3. The Joining

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Retouched and beta-ified on 5/3/2016. Special thanks to @touchreceptors for the amazing round of edits and do check out her amazing work on One Punch Man if you're into that fandom! Please leave a comment in the section below and let me know what you think! :D
> 
> Reworked on 12/7/2017.

It did not take long for Anders to second-guess his earlier decision not to run away. Varel was holding what seemed to be a jewel-encrusted goblet, but his appearance was considerably darkened compared to several minutes ago, and even Tabris appeared more solemn than usual. Neither did the sight of the throne room in disarray improve matters. The once grand-looking hall bore signs of battle and the odor of dried darkspawn blood still lingered on the walls, almost suggestive of his bloody fate as a Warden. But beyond the cold grey surroundings stained with death, Anders could feel a certain austerity, marred by a kind of cruelty that emanated from the walls, almost certainly left by its previous owners. He made a mental note to himself – to remind Tabris to get rid of these peculiar energies after the Joining. A few purple draperies and rows of flower pottery should the trick. And a bard; definitely. Anything to distract from the strange energies that seemed to be diffusing through the walls - or perhaps it was coming from the floors…

Anders looked at his companions, who appeared blissfully indifferent to his suffering. Oghren looked moderately bored and even irritated at the wait despite the fact that he was involved in a life-or-death battle with a talking darkspawn an hour ago. Meanwhile, Mhairi looked as though she had met Andraste in the flesh, judging by the reverent expression on her face - which disturbed Anders mildly. Not your average kind of responses when about to undertake a dubious ritual that could change your life forever. A ritual which might or might not involve the sacrifice of kittens and virgins, no less.

“So Varel, is the ritual ready?” Tabris asked. Anders prayed that the answer was no. 

“Yes, Warden-Commander." _Fuck_. "The darkspawn blood is still fresh thankfully, though it is hard to find darkspawn that have not already been poisoned by deathroot extract…”

Tabris smiled. “My apologies. I’ll try not to poison my knives during our next darkspawn invasion.” Smiling while talking about poisoning darkspawn. Definitely not creepy. Anders began to third-guess his decision to join the Wardens now. 

With that Tabris took the goblet from Varel’s hands and turned to the Grey Warden recruits. “The time has come for us to begin the Joining. I shall speak the words that have been said since the First.”

Tabris uncorked the vial of black liquid that was on the table and emptied it into the goblet.  _Oh God, that smell…_  Anders’ stomach heaved. He could identify that smell anywhere. Well, that wasn’t difficult, considering how it literally was everywhere on the walls. Tabris watched, impassively, as the darkspawn blood swirled within the goblet. When he lifted his head, his expression was chilling and solemn, a blank wall against the rest of his thoughts.

“Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand, vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn.”  Tabris recited the verses without pause as though he committed them to memory. There was however, an unusual catch in his voice, which sounded almost like a twinge of regret.  “And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten and that one day we shall join you.”

Tabris handed the goblet to Oghren with a ceremonious bow. “From this moment forth, Oghren, you are a Grey Warden.”

“What’s this? The sampler size?” Oghren eyed the huge cup with a suspicious look. It was larger than half of his head. “Are you trying to say something about my height, eh?”

“Er… this is the goblet we’ve always used.” said Varel.

“Really, huh.” Oghren snatched the goblet from Tabris’ hands and gulped it down in one swoop. Anders wanted to look away in revulsion but found himself staring because it was too disgusting not to watch. To Anders’ horror, Oghren’s eyes turned entirely white after he finished the cup, as though his eyeballs had rolled to the back of his head. But then Oghren released a huge belch and his eyes returned to normal. “Not bad.” Oghren commented, as though he had finished a four-course meal.

Tabris let out a long sigh. “Maker help us all.” He moved to Anders and offered an encouraging smile. “From this moment forth, Anders, you are a Grey Warden.”

“So we need to drink darkspawn blood? That’s it?”

“That or hurlocks’ testicles. Your pick.”

“Well all right, but if I wake up two weeks from now on a ship bound for Rivain in nothing but my underwear and a tattoo on my forehead, I’m blaming you.”

Anders took the chalice reluctantly. Maker, it smelled like the insides of other people’s assholes. And not the clean ones. Anders took a deep breath and downed the entire cup in one swallow.

His head felt as though it was going to burst open the moment the accursed liquid touched his mouth. It hurt; pain that felt as though his flesh was being burnt and rendered off his skin all at once. Dying. He must be dying. This was pain beyond imagining, pain beyond any endurance. The searing spread through his head, his arms, his legs; every part of his body was screaming for release; even death would be better than this. Anders collapsed to the ground and he lost consciousness as the pain overwhelmed him into submission.

After what felt like an eternity, Anders found that he could open his eyes. His eyes had to be open, for what stretched before him was an endless wasteland. The ashy landscape was spotted with nothing but gnarly trunks, devoid of life and leaves, and out of nowhere came a darkspawn roar. Instinctively, he knew it was a call to battle, an incitement to violence, and it would be heading to Vigil’s Keep soon. What was strange was that the roar seemed almost feminine, a twisted perversion of what used to be human, and it was beckoning him, beckoning him to…

Anders found himself awake in cold sweat, his heart beating profusely. “That was too vivid to be a dream,” he thought as he took in his surroundings. He was lying on a white bed in what appeared to be a homely bedroom. Across the room was a sturdy looking wardrobe, a couple of cabinets and a desk that seemed obscured from his line of sight.

“I see you’ve woken up.”

Startled, Anders tried to locate the voice. To his relief, he realised that it was Tabris, seated at the desk with his back turned towards him. Holding a feathery quill, his features were sharpened with concentration as he scribbled, the sound of an ink tip meeting parchment filling the room.

“Maker, give me some warning that you’re here! I could’ve been naked here you know.”

“And why would I give you a warning if that’s the case?” Tabris set his quill down and turned to face Anders with a small smile. Anders was sure that was in all likelihood, a joke before he realised that the Commander’s eyes were imbued with a light green glow. His eyes had a sheen to them that reminded Anders of a cat, and against the pale light of the moon, they gave off an uncanny green glow that seemed to belong to the Fade. “Are you okay?” asked Tabris in concern as he walked over and sat on Anders’ bed.

“Yeah,” muttered Anders as he refocussed his attention back to the conversation. “I heard darkspawn screaming and I was in this place that looked as though everything died, you know? Like the The End section of a really bad storybook.” said Anders.

“I think I’m familiar with that dream. Screaming darkspawn, surrounded with death, valley of ashes; it would feel like a cheap cliché if it didn’t feel so real.”  Tabris reached for the cup sitting on the bedside table and offered him what looked like a molten brown liquid. “Here, drink this; you’ll probably feel better.”

“It’s going to take me some time to trust your beverage recommendations but…” Upon taking a deep sip, Anders found himself almost delirious with pleasure. The taste was milky, smooth and sweet at the same time. It was rich in flavour and thick in texture, and it was about the most delicious thing that Anders had ever drunk. “What’s that drink?” He gasped. “It’s amazing!”

“It’s made from a type of nut found in the tropical forests of Antiva called cocoa. The natives made it into a liquid and added cows’ milk and sugar. It’s rare in Ferelden, and dreadfully expensive but it’s pretty common in the Antivan market. A special friend who’s in Antiva makes it a point to send some over every once in a while.”

“What a marvelous friend you must have, to provide you with such succulent treats!”

“He provides many succulent treats, yes.” said Tabris simply. Anders was not sure if he saw the slightest twitch of Tabris’ lips, or if it was an illusion caused by the weak moonlight. “But as a healer, you’ll be interested to know that it also acts as an excellent cure for jittery nerves, anxiety and depression.”

“Well,” Anders took another huge gulp hungrily. The smoothness of the hot liquid as it flowed down his throat was the closest to pure bliss that Anders had experienced in the past few years characterised by frugality and abstention. While he was on the run, his diet had been filled with anything the wilderness could provide; elderberries, elfroots and the occasional wolf roasted over a campfire, and food at the Circle was made deliberately tasteless in order to duplicate an ascetic lifestyle which the Chantry preferred. The templar-commander justified it on the grounds that it warded off a human’s natural proclivities towards temptation; for mages, this allowed them to better resist the charms of the desire demon in their sleep. Anders however, always had a nagging suspicion that the son of a bitch just wanted to watch them suffer. Tasting the delicious hot cocoa was almost a reminder of how good indulgence used to feel. “You know, I suppose I wouldn’t mind the nightmares if it means I get to drink this immediately afterwards.”

“Well, it’s good to know that you’re fine; Mhairi… well, she didn’t make it.” Anders’ stomach tightened upon hearing the news. He looked at Tabris, who returned the leveled gaze with serious eyes. Taking a deep breath, he finished the remains of the cocoa drink in a final sip.

“What… do you mean?”

“Occasionally, the Joining can be unsuccessful. Mhairi’s body was unable to sustain the taint.”

Anders did not know how to respond.  His heart sank as he felt himself being enveloped by a familiar wave of helplessness. He knew that he should have been used to it, given the amount of deaths he’d encountered in his life as a fugitive on the run, but as a Spirit Healer, he felt intimately connected to the potential of human life, and the preservation of that potential from an untimely end. While Anders knew that it was silly to feel upset over Mhairi’s death given that they’d barely known each other; he could not get over the fact that Mhairi’s life had been cut short before it truly had begun. It was a terrible expense of spirit, a complete waste of potential. And that, to Anders, was enough to mourn over.

“Here, take this.” Tabris handed a dark glass pendant to Anders. “After every Joining, we take some of the darkspawn blood and place it in a pendant; something to remind us of those who did not make it this far.”

“I’ll take good care of it.” Anders muttered, as he cupped the pendant tightly with both hands. It felt warm to the touch, even as he sensed the dark energies of the taint within the necklace; a vibration that he could feel radiating from his body as well. “Is there anything else that I should know about being a Grey Warden?”

“Your blood is now permanently tainted with the Blight, though it will take decades for it to truly take effect. The effects you’ll experience include recurring nightmares, the ability to detect darkspawn nearby, and transforming into one in a few decades. On the upside, you will find your body strengthened in different ways: your hearing sharpens, your stamina improves, your endurance for pain increases, and you can have sex as much as you want without fear of impregnation.” It was an awkward joke that even Tabris seemed to be aware of, for his smile appeared strained and his words were forced.

“You mean… I’m impotent?”

“I’m sorry,” said Tabris hurriedly upon seeing Anders’ face fall. “That probably was not that funny, but yes. Most Wardens find themselves having difficulty in producing children after the Joining. Do you… want to have children?”

Anders found himself respond almost out of reflex, for it was a question that he was used to thinking about in cold damp cells, locked in confinement. The answer was always one that reaffirmed his desire to escape. “No mage I know in the Circle ever dared to fall in love, much less start a family. It gives the templars too much power over you if they know you care about something deeply. You’ll be foolish even if you entertain these ideas."

“We exist in the Circle not as humans, but as prisoners.” continued Anders bitterly. “Two years ago, I was captured by the templars at the edges of the Korcari Wilds for my fourth escape. When I was thrown into solitary confinement, I remembered the templar commander; he was sneering at me. “Magic must serve man, not rule over him”, he said. What it meant according to him, was that mages were just magical tools to be used by the Kingdom whenever they need magic to be done; and sent back into the tower when they are done using us. We’re not human beings in the eyes of the Chantry; we have no past, no future, no wants, no goals, no aspirations, nothing; just a selection of body parts delivered up like tools in a magical toolkit.”

There was a slight pause, and when Tabris finally spoke up, his voice was restrained and his tone was apologetic. “I’m sorry, Anders. I didn’t know it was that bad.” No, it was closer to… regret?

Anders looked up and saw that Tabris’ eyes had softened to a pale green. “King Alistair was a templar trainee; the first templar that I ever knew personally and actually, he was my first human friend.  Yes, Rylock was crazy but I've always chalked it up to over-religious zeal. So I’ve never thought that templars in the Circle could be as abusive as you’d described.”

“Hey, maybe it’s just me.” Anders managed a wry smile. “I’ve been hit on countless times by the Circle due to my dashing persona. The templars were just the first to replace “on” with “by”.

He caught the Warden-Commander’s eyes once more and sighed, dragging a hand through his sable hair until it stood up in tufts around his freckled face.

“It’s really all right. You just had to get used to it. You simply have to learn not to care too much otherwise it gets tiring after some time.”

Tabris frowned. “But you’re a Spirit Healer,” said the Warden-Commander thoughtfully. “Your powers are derived from your ability to reach out to spirits beyond the Fade; the good ones. Like compassion, empathy and joy.”

Anders was taken aback. Most people are unaware of how magic worked, much less the specifics of mage specialisations. “I feel strangely naked by how much you knew of me, Commander,” said Anders as he wrapped his arms around his figure in an exaggerated sensual manner. “Any more details and I’ll feel like I’m in a gentleman’s party with nothing but my bloomers on.”

Tabris’ thoughtful expression was replaced with a slight smirk. “I can imagine that.”

Anders winked. "How did you know about spirit healing?" Anders asked curiously. It was nice to get positive attention and with the lack of estrogen in this area, he'll settle for _any_. 

"One of my companions during my battle with the Archdemon was a Spirit Healer." Tabris said simply. “So, I cannot imagine how hard it must be to feel stifled and repressed, when the basis of your powers depends solely on you _feeling_ happy or compassionate. How do you manage it?” 

“It’s a delicate position to maintain. It kinda feels like trying to force out a fart but you’re always worried that it might turn out to be shit.”

Anders did not expect the loud guffaw that escaped from Tabris’ lips. His eyes, momentarily stunned, were now twinkling, and his shoulders were shaking with laughter. Then he laughed so outright, so hard that he threw himself back on the bedsheet, gasping for breath. Bemused, Anders leaned his head in, over Tabris’ face and lied sideways on the bed, as he propped his head against the pillows for support.

“You know, if you’re laughing this hard with fart jokes, wait till we get to my infamous Circle stories on scatology.” Anders gave a sunny grin, waiting for Tabris’ laughter to subside. “You know, the Chantry would be in such a state of shock to know that the Hero of Ferelden is into anal humour.”

“Positively scandalous, wouldn’t you say?”

Anders nodded. “It’ll end Ferelden as we know it.”

“That will be unfortunate, I'm sure.” Tabris slowly stood up, though his eyes still bore a slight twinkle. “As much as I would love to probe further, I'm afraid I'm taking away your rest time. It’s getting late and you should probably try to get some sleep though the nightmares usually don’t come the second time around." As Tabris reached for the door, he added almost as an after-thought: "We'll talk more.” With that, the Warden-Commander left the room.

Anders sat up in his bed for the next hour and replayed the conversation he had had with Tabris. He sighed, and felt a strange combination of relief and shame. The question that Tabris had asked earlier felt slightly raw and personal. Guilt pricked at him when he remembered how he’d detracted from the question with a joke. Funny, yes – but it had reduced Tabris’ concern into something banal and trivial. It was not because Anders felt uncomfortable with questions about his life; after all he  _did_  have friends in the Circle who had shown genuine and appropriate interest in his well-being. But none of them had ever asked about the emotions he’d repressed in order to survive his time in the Circle. No one had ever asked anything that had reached deep enough to touch some of his most intimate fears – the fear of losing his humanity due to that repression. To give that level of trust to anyone in the Circle, even a friend, would not have been wise. Anders had learned that much, when he’d been recaptured and thrown back into the Circle a year ago. There had been rumors of an apprentice mage named Jowan, who’d involved his best friend in an attempted escape only to discover that he’d been sold out to the Grand Enchanter all along. Trust was a sentiment - noble, but sentimentality was an indulgence that would not help him survive. It was quick wits, advance planning, and utilitarianism that had gotten him this far. At best, trust had only slowed him down, but at its worst – and more often – it had resulted in more betrayals by rogues, mages and villagers than he could count.

But even as Anders tossed and turned in his sleep, he could not help but know that Tabris was different from the rest. The impish face that came to him behind his eyelids when he closed them strangely inspired some form of confidence, and Anders kept seeing the fleeting moment of vulnerability that he had caught in Tabris’ eyes – a hidden tenderness he had found when their gazes had met. It was that trust that he had just breached, and he told himself that maybe, just maybe he would learn how to be honest with Tabris. And eventually with himself.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line: “Anders took the chalice reluctantly which smelt like the insides of other people’s assholes.” was from Ryan Reynolds’ Deadpool. 
> 
> "...it would feel like a cheap cliché if it didn’t feel so real." was inspired from a line by Jessica Lange's character in America Horror Story: Murder House: "Could you be more of a pathetic, cheap cliche?" 
> 
> Anders’ point on mage food made deliberately tasteless in order to ward off temptations was actually a Puritanical tradition in the 19th century. 
> 
> Anders’ point on how mages are dehumanised and have no past and no future is inspired from Prof Gail Dines’ lecture on the porn industry and its effects on women in this link starting at the 14.23 mark: “As long as you conform to flat stomachs, big breasts toned thighs, blond is better usually, then you know what, we are the same: cause women in media have no past, no future, no wants, no goals, no aims, no history, no aspirations, nothing. They’re just a selection of body parts delivered up.” Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zzkiNkAXV3I
> 
> Line on liquid cocoa combatting depression is influenced by J.K Rowling’s Harry Potter and The Prisoner of Azkaban where chocolate was seen as a way to combat the after-effects of dementors.
> 
> The line, “it was a terrible expense of spirit, a complete waste of potential.” was derived from Shakespeare’s opening line in Sonnet 129: “Th' expense of spirit in a waste of shame”


	4. Nathaniel Howe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to @Screaming_Possum for his personal support, and to @touchreceptors for her AMAZING beta work on this; despite her incoming deadlines on her thesis submission. This work had benefited so much from all the late night discussions and plot tweaks that she had shared with me that she's almost a co-author in some regard. Thank you!
> 
> Major edit completed on 19/7/2017 - complete revamp of last section of the chapter

Anders found himself waking up to an unfamiliar warmth touching his cheek. As his mind cleared, Anders propped himself up and looked at his surroundings, barely able to believe that the incidents which occurred last night was _real_. This strange sensation of blankets wrapped around him, the warmth of sunlight basking his entire body - it felt peculiarly... like peace. When his eyes regained their focus, he could see the rays of the sun glinting through the curtains of the bedroom. In these moments, Anders felt a quiet sense of gratitude for what transpired, despite the sacrifices that he had to make. After all, he was a wanted man, a man marked for death less than a day ago only to have that sentence reversed. As he breathed in the light scent of the grassy dew that was diffusing through his window; he felt an unfathomable warmth welling in his chest, and he knew that he was free.

Thankfully, his sleep had been free from the earlier nightmares that plagued him, and his dream-like entry into the Fade had been an uneventful one. This was all he ever wanted, Anders thought with a smile, to wake up every morning without a templar kick to his skull. And destroying his phylactery, he realised with a frown, but that's a matter best pursued for another day. As Anders got out of bed, he looked through his cabinets and was pleased to discover that they were well-stocked with clothes, writing materials and toiletries ranging from soaps to shaving knives. But it was when he entered into the small washroom that was attached to his bedroom that his heart nearly stopped.

In the washroom was the most beautiful thing that Anders had seen in years: a pristine stone basin with water filled to the brim such that sunlight appeared to dance across its surface, beckoning him to sink in. His time as a refugee on the run meant he had almost forgotten how blissful being _clean_ had felt, and how pleasurable it was to have warm water wash over his skin. _Don’t cry, Anders, but the water is still heated_ , he thought tearfully while dipping a finger into the basin. _Someone, a servant must have filled it up not long ago._

Anders took a breath, then stripped with such speed that he was sure he had just made a tear in his undergarments somewhere. It was impossible to stop the loud moan from escaping himself as he immersed his body in the bath. He could feel his tense muscles relaxing, and the bath water washing off the dirt that was caked into his tired and abused skin. A deep scrub and an even deeper wash eventually took almost half an hour in the stone basin and when Anders was done, he proceeded to his facial maintenance rituals, which took just as long. When he was done with his stubble trim and self-given hair cut, Anders felt a sense of accomplishment that he not experienced in a long time, one that was derived from not looking like he’d just come out from a lumberjack orgy.

As he was just about to step out of the room, dressed in his new blue Warden doublet and pants, Anders noticed a small, discrete envelope on his vanity. He recognised it as the letter that Tabris was writing in his room last night, just before he woke up. Curious, Anders picked up the envelope and found it unsealed, only a small scrawl on its front:

_For Z,_

_From T._

For a moment Anders was tempted to lift out the letter that sat in it, to see what Tabris had been so busy with writing the night before. The envelope was unsealed, which meant that Anders could easily read the letter, then slip it back into the envelope with Tabris being none the wiser. Come to think of it, why did Tabris chose to compose a letter in Anders’ room of all places? _It can’t be that important if he chose to write it in my room_ , Anders rationalised as his fingers reached into the fold of the envelope.

 

* * *

 

 When Anders entered the Great Hall, he saw that Oghren had arrived before him and was crunching down hungrily on a chicken drumstick dripping with gravy. As he looked around the hall, he found himself impressed at the speed with which the servants managed to clean up the place. In each corner of the Great Hall were giant statues of armored knights; each bearing the Grey Warden insignia. There were also intricate tapestries hanging on the stone walls; each depicting famous battles of Wardens against past Archdemons. 

“Warden Anders,” came a gentle voice behind him. It was a handsome man, with neatly parted black hair, dressed formally in black and blue. “Lunch is ready if you’ll proceed to this side,” he said, gesturing towards a long table that was piled up with dishes.

Never before had Anders seen so many things he liked to eat all on one table: beef steak and carrots, roasted cod and potatoes, apple pie, baked chicken, and far more, less visible now due to the tears that had started welling up in his eyes. And somewhere at the back of the hall, Anders was sure that there was a choir of prepubescent boys singing perfect chords for added effect to the awe-inspiring nature of the feast.

“Yur late,” growled Oghren, his beard mired in brown sauce. “We started lunch without you.”

“After we eat, remind me to send a letter to Divine Justina because we now have concrete proof of the Maker’s existence,” muttered Anders as he piled his plate with a bit of everything from the table. He was about to cut into his steak when he heard a familiar voice behind him.

“Mind if I joined you?” Anders turned around and saw Tabris holding a plate of roast chicken and peas. Anders scrutinised Tabris’ face, as this was the first time he saw his features properly illuminated by daylight. The Commander’s nimble eyes and swift smile were sharper than Anders remembered them, but still essentially unchanged.  He was also dressed in a blue Warden doublet, similar to the one Anders was wearing.

“No of course not, Warden-Commander,” mumbled Anders as he dug into his plate, which became insistent on taking up all of his attention.

“So Oghren, I hear from Varel that you’ve already depleted half of the ale that was stocked in the Keep,” Tabris sounded almost disarmingly casual as he retrieved a silver needle from his doublet pocket.

“And it tasted like nug-piss,” grunted Oghren. “Yer ale were all goin’ bad and I was doing you a favour by getting rid of all the pissy-shtick.”

“Oh don’t sound so defensive, Oghren.” The reply was even, cool. “I was wondering if you’ll be willing to go to Amaranthine sometime this week with me to the brewery, and pick the type of ale which the Keep should stock up.” With that, Anders stared in fascination as Tabris began to prick his roasted chicken with his needle in a meticulous fashion.

Oghren thumped his wooden tankard upon the table in approval. “Oh course I would! Heh, this Warden-business sure is looking up!”

“Warden-Commander?” Anders blurted out, after a moment of internal restraint. “You _do_ know the chicken’s already dead right? You don’t have to prick at it to make it jump, in case it’s pretending or something.”

“I’m testing for poison.” said Tabris, as he inspected his needle. “Most poisons such as deathroot and deep mushrooms contain sulphur, which turns silver compounds black.”

“If it’s poisoned; it sure is some hell-of-a tasty poison.” said Oghren, narrowing his eyes. “Commander here is just paranoid that someone’s out to get him.”

“Just a habit,” smiled Tabris. “I was also told by Varel that there’s a prisoner in the Keep’s dungeon. They caught him stealing in the trophy room and kept him locked up for days awaiting my arrival, but the guards were killed by the darkspawn while he survived safely behind bars.”

“Well isn’t that a familiar story,” said Anders. “I’m starting to get this strange impression that being a prisoner is actually safer than being a prison guard.”

“I thought you might appreciate the irony of it. Which is why if the two of you have nothing much to do, I would like it if you’ll join me after lunch as I decide upon his sentence.”

Anders took a clear look at Tabris, who was now impassively dissecting his chicken with a knife. He certainly did not seem to be inebriated, possessed, hexed or cognitively impaired in any way.

“You want my opinion?” asked Anders in an incredulous tone. “You do know that I was one of those prisoners that were locked up in the Keep as well, right?”

“But you’re no longer a prisoner now,” Tabris said pointedly. “You’re a Grey Warden, one of the most established and coveted knight orders in Thedas. It is about time that you start to think of yourself not as a mage on the run, but as a member of the Grey Wardens. Also, I may be the arl of the Vigil’s Keep, but Amaranthine and the Keep were given to the Grey Wardens by the King. It only seems fair that, as the only other two Wardens around, you should both have a say in how the Keep is governed.”

Anders was speechless. “You... you don’t have to do that.”

“I don’t,” The immediate agreement took Anders a little by surprise. “But I want to.”

“This is your home now.” Tabris added quietly, almost like an afterthought. His face was visibly softened as he looked directly into Anders’ eyes. “You should feel like you belong here.”

Anders found himself fascinated by his plate again, though this time, it was already empty. His mind was spinning at Tabris’ words. _Belonging. Home._ These were words that felt strangely foreign to him; words that he disavowed when he was sent away to live in the Circle. Home to Anders was only a blurry memory of cosy farmsteads; a memory which he had cast aside ever since his family turned him in to the hands of the templars. Home was not home if you could not remember what it felt like, and belonging could not exist in the same space where betrayal took place. But this… this was new to him. Anders realised that he had never been invited to participate in decisions, to make a difference in where he was living in. As long as he could remember, he was either following or running away from instructions on how to live his life in the Circle; like a fly trapped under the giant weight of a fat dwarf’s thumb. His mind was teeming with vague but splendid possibilities of what Tabris’ words meant. With a new, strange warmth at his heart, he realised how much faith and trust Tabris was putting in him; someone he’d barely known a day ago. Anders was just about to open his mouth, probably to thank him, when suddenly, Oghren farted.  

“If yer really wanted to make me feel like I belong here, get some dwarven wenches and free flow of ale instead of all this… water stuff!” Oghren looked in disgust at his wooden tankard.

Tabris laughed. On the opposite side of the table, Anders felt partly relieved that he was no longer obligated to respond, even if he was on the receiving end of Oghren’s anal acoustics. Knowing his penchant for turning everything uncomfortable into an awkward joke, Anders was certain that he would screw this up, too. As he listened to Oghren and Tabris’ banter, Anders felt a certain pang of jealousy as once again; he was left out of a pre-existing conversational dynamic as they jokingly referenced their time spent together in the Fifth Blight.

“Well the last time you got drunk, Oghren, whatever you did to those nugs turned into both a criminal violation and a hidden, underground fetish, which, given that Orzammar is _already_ hidden and underground, says something about your drinking habits.”

“Well, Warden-Commander _ser_ ,” snarled Oghren, “the last time _you_ were drunk…”

“That was addled with lyrium, it hardly counts.”

Anders closed his eyes and before he knew it, his mouth opened before he could stop it. “Hey, Commander? There’s something I forgot to tell you.” Anders’ intrusion into the conversation took even himself by surprise. Upon realising what he had done, he tried to find a hole or a plate to slink into.  

Tabris looked at him quizzically, and even Oghren seemed slightly curious; there was no way out now. Cursing himself for getting stuck in such a situation, he scrambled for a possible topic to broach.

“Oh it’s nothing much,” Anders tried to laugh it off. “I think you might have left something in my room.”

“Love letter, eh?” Oghren eyed the envelope suspiciously as Anders dutifully handed it to Tabris.

“That was terribly careless of me,” smiled Tabris, his face neutral. “I was waiting for you to wake up, so I spent the time composing some letters for the Keep.”

“Didn’t take you for the careless type.” Oghren remarked.

“The letter was largely administrative, Oghren. It was not that important.” Turning his attention to Anders, Tabris asked, “Did you happen to read it?”

“Maker, I really wanted to,” began Anders until he saw a faint glint in Tabris’ eyes. There was something peculiar about Tabris’ expression but as he tried to focus on what felt wrong, it disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. “The battle between the temptation and I was long and tough, but I came out stronger than I did before, and with a better understanding of myself! So to answer your question, no I didn’t.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“It… didn’t feel like the right thing to do.” Anders had no idea why he continued talking, but he did. “In the Circle, all letters sent into and out of the Tower were read and vetted by the templars. I’d feel no better than a templar if I were to do that.”

Tabris became silent after that, as he finished the rest of his meal. Oghren continued to needle him about his drunken habits throughout the rest of his lunch but Tabris’ responses suddenly felt largely cursory, as if his mind was preoccupied on something else. It did not take too long for Tabris to notice that Anders was observing him, and he offered Anders a polite smile in return. There was a certain warmth in his smile, there was no doubt about that. But Anders could not help feeling that there was something exceedingly lonely in Tabris’ smile as well; a smile that Tabris used to close himself off from everyone, even himself. 

 

* * *

 

And so it was that after lunch’s conclusion, Anders found himself accompanying Tabris and Oghren down into the dungeon. The group descended the winding stone stairway that led them into an ominous, rock-walled tunnel reinforced with planks of wood. Torches hung in sconces along the low, vaulted passageways; there was not a sound aside from a distant dripping of water.

“Remind me to get Varel to reinforce the dungeon,” muttered Tabris. “This place looks like it could cave in any second.”

“Well that’s something to look forward to,” said Anders, feeling his nose wrinkle at the smell of the dungeon around him. The foul stench of mildew and decay hung thick upon the air; and droplets of darkspawn and human blood were still visible on the stone floor; indicators of a lethal battle that had happened not long before. 

The group proceeded through the dark passageway and entered into an immense, dimly lit chamber. Anders hobbled past a long row of gated prison cells, horrified when he noticed that some of them contained skeletons, until they reached an occupied prison cell at the far end of the room, watched over by a solitary cell guard.

There was a single torch which offered the prison’s sole illumination, but it provided enough light for Anders to make out the prisoner’s facial features. Dressed in standard prison garb, the prisoner looked at Tabris with a defiant scowl. Beyond that contemptuous glare, his eyes bore signs of shrewdness, and his skin looked taut and stretched over his cheekbones, giving his face a sharp and hardened edge. His jet-black hair hung untidily over his shoulders, and it looked so unwashed that Anders wondered if there were any spiders which mistook his hair for a home.

“Ah, Commander. It’s good that you’re here,” the guard bowed in reverence. “This thief was caught three nights ago; took four Wardens to capture him. Gave one of the Wardens a black eye. Half-joking, they said he might make a good recruit.”

“I’m not sure if I want a thief to be part of the Wardens.” said Tabris.

“As you say. It just seemed a good idea, with all the Orlesian Wardens dead.”

"Anything valuable that he had stolen?"

"The guard gestured to the chest besides the guard table. "Everything found on him is in that chest, Commander."

Tabris moved towards the chest and stooped over to examine its contents. There was nothing out of the ordinary to Anders - light brown clothing, old photo frames, a silver chalice and several silver coins laid at the bottom of the chest, glinting softly in the shadows.

“Do you know who he is?” Anders asked.

“He won’t give us his name. All I know is he was caught poking around the estate in the middle of the night. I’d say he was just a thief, but given how many Wardens it took to pin him down, he’s no ordinary burglar; that’s for sure.”

Tabris turned to face the prisoner, who glared at him beyond the bars. “If it isn’t the great hero, conqueror of the Blight and vanquisher of all evil,” spat the man. “Aren’t you supposed to be ten feet tall? With lightning bolts shooting out of your eyes?”

“I’m in disguise.” said Tabris simply. “Unless your personality is as oily as your hair, I’m afraid I don’t quite get the misplaced aggression.”

“Somehow I just thought my father’s murderer would be… more impressive.” Upon hearing that, Anders took a quick glance at Tabris and was surprised to see his face twisted in an undecipherable emotion. “I am Nathaniel Howe. My family owned these lands until you showed up. Do you even remember my father?”

 “Yes I do.” Tabris’ tone immediately turned emotionless and curt in his response.

“I came here… I thought I was going to try to kill you. To lay a trap on you. But then I realised I just wanted to reclaim some of my family’s things. It’s all I have left.” The anger in Nathaniel’s face was replaced with such a forlorn expression that Anders might have assumed that someone had stepped on his kitten.

“Just how much do you know of what your father has done?”

“If you’re asking whether I know what he was up to, the answer is no. I was squired in the Free Marches since I was a teenager. Look, all I know is you’re a hero. You fought a war against my father and you won, and to the victor go the spoils, right? But whatever my father did shouldn’t harm my whole family. The Howes are pariahs now, those of us left. We have no homes, spat on in the streets and no one would take us in or hire us.”

“You’re an ignorant nug, aren’t you?” Oghren shook his head in disgust. “Your father was a backstabbing-“

Tabris shot a warning look at Oghren before he bent and inserted a rusty key into the lock. As he pushed the door open, Anders and Oghren stood alert, awaiting any signs of danger. Tabris moved towards Nathaniel and bent down to face the prisoner directly, barely a few inches away. This moment would have been an excellent opportunity for Nathaniel to spit into Tabris’ eye, Anders thought.

“Let him go.” said Tabris softly as he walked towards the door, a strange catch to his voice. There was no doubt about it; it sounded like sadness.

“Is that what you want, Commander?” the guard said hesitantly.

“Are you crazy, Commander!” Oghren burst out. “Do you have a death wish? This man here just said that he wanted to kill you for killing his daddy!”

“If you let me go, I’ll probably come back here. You might not catch me next time,” snarled Nathaniel, who seemed to have quickly regained his composure.

“You know, you’re not really making the best case for yourself,” said Anders lightly.

“For what it’s worth, Nathaniel,” Tabris stopped in his tracks, the outline of his back stiff in the dim light. “I did offer your father a chance to turn himself in. He wouldn’t take it, and came at me with a sword, along with his bodyguards. So I killed him. It was fast and quick and he did not suffer needlessly.”

The next words came out as swift and unrelenting like a dagger blade, hidden from the shadows. “I am sorry for what happened though.”

An apology? Oghren’s expression was one of shock when Anders looked over at him. It mirrored how Anders felt, himself. Tabris turned back to face Oghren and Anders, and said again in a measured voice, “Let him go.”

“This is gonna bite ya right in the buttocks, I swear. He’s going to come back and kill you.” Oghren warned as he quickly recomposed himself.  

“He won’t.” said Tabris with the same disconcerting amount of certainty. _Argh, is Tabris really that foolish?!_ Anders thought in frustration. _If he has so much faith in people, he might as well just cut off his testicles and join the Chantry for good._

But Tabris was gone, exiting the prison without another word.

 

* * *

 

“Does Tabris do that often?” asked Anders once he stepped back into the Great Hall. “You know, give people a second chance.”

“Blimey,” Oghren shook his head as he grabbed a wooden tankard and filled it to the brim from an ale cask that was attached to the wall. “You had no idea. You want one?”

“Thanks for the offer, but it’s a little early for my stomach.”

Oghren let out a loud grunt of disapproval. “Stupid mages with their weak stomaches.”

“You know, I’ve never really met a Commander who’s even more benevolent than Divine Victoria. He makes my teeth ache; all that glorious kindness and holiness radiating off him.” Anders complained as he took a seat at one of the tables in the Great Hall.

“You think he’s benevolent? Then he gotcha fooled.”

Surpised at that response, Anders took a hard look at Oghren. He did not appear to be joking, “The first thing ya need to know about our Warden-Commander here, is that he’s a rogue through and through. He’s a good leader but make no mistake; he lies, he cheats, he steals and he manipulates. Seen it happen all da time. What he did just now was pure manipulation in action.”

The hostility displayed by Oghren seemed to have come out of nowhere. Anders frowned. “I don’t quite understand what you mean by that. I mean…”

“Tell me, yer skirt-wearing pansy, if you haven’t already picked up on it by now.” Oghren sneered as he took a long sip from his tankard. “What he did jus now wasn’t benevolence; it was calculated risk! He did that of dat to give an _impression_ of the benevolent arl, so that dem townsfolk will get off his lil elven ass."

None of it was making any sense to Anders. It must have been apparent to Oghren because his scrowl was becoming more pronounced.

"How yer think you would look as the new incoming arl, if you were to kill the eldest son of the previous arl a few days after usurping his land?" Oghren demanded. "And next tim you're at Amaranthine, jus look at how they treat dem city elves. Already half the humans in Amaranthine are already close to a revolt at the thought of a knife-ear, rulin’ over them, tellin’ em what to do. Killing that Howe kid, no matter how despised his father was, would have them townfolk marchin’ over here asking for his head!

Oghren slammed his tankard on the table in agitation, spilling half his ale over the table. “So he let that nug runt go, and apologised to really twist it in; apologized _real_ good to really manipulate him so he won’t come running back ere. He’s smart, I’ll grant em that; them elves always are playin’ a good game but if ya think that he’s kind and all that, you’re a bigger fool than I thought.”

“Aren’t you being kind of cynical of our leader here?”

“Oh yeah, pretty boy? If you hadn’t had yer head in yer knickerweasels, you would have known he did the same to yer too! Got you all wound up around his lil elven finger! Just now your lil talk with him about wanting you to feel like you belonged; make this place yer home? He’s jus sayin that to make you feel grateful! He knew yur an apostate who keeps runnin away so he made yer feel good; sink yer roots here, so you won’t run away. Cheapest form of obedience control…”

Anders found himself getting unnecessarily worked up. “It’s a little harsh to say all that about our Commander, even coming from the likes of a drunken dwarf.”

“Really?” Oghren narrowed his eyes. “If he really did want yer to feel included; why didn’t he ask you or me about what to do with that prisoner, _like he said?_ Last I recall, he overruled what I said about letting him go.”

Anders did not have a response to that.

Oghren continued, the words like a knife twisting itself into Anders’ gut. “Cause he jus sayin’ all that to make you wanna stay here. You stay long enough; you see his _true_ colors. Cause you…”

Anders did not managed to hear the rest of Oghren’s diatribe as he found himself standing up abruptly and walking out of the Great Hall, his pulse pounding in his ears. When he reached his room, Anders closed his door soundlessly behind him, and leaned his back against it as he slid down to the floor. Behind the closed door, there was no one to see his crestfallen face or the confusion he had hidden from Oghren.

Anders spent the rest of the afternoon lying on his bed, restlessly replaying Oghren’s words over and over again. The sneer of that fat dwarf also kept coming back to him but Anders found it much easier to block that image out. The entire day had begun so well; Anders had honestly believed in Tabris’ offer, that he was sincere and striving to make Vigil’s Keep a real and proper home. But Oghren’s taunts had cast a huge doubt over Tabris’ intentions, and as Anders stared blankly at the empty space above his bed, he found that he had grown tired, and weary-hearted. What if Oghren was right about Tabris? It was true that he did not deliver on his offer to consult either the smelly dwarf or Anders’ about the judgment for Nathaniel. And it was true that Anders did feel like he had a stake in Vigil’s Keep, and that he was happy enough in Tabris’ company; enough to make him forget about all the nightmares, the impotency, the eventual corruption that would consume him in time. He had not even questioned the veracity of his feelings until Oghren did. What if Tabris didn’t mean all that; if he was really just saying it because of Anders’ history as an apostate, because of his penchant for escaping? As he turned over in his bed for the umpteenth time, the image of Tabris’ smile last night flashed before his eyes, and he let out a groan in frustration upon realising that he did not know what to believe in anymore.

A polite knock on the door startled him out of the wave of lethargy that was beckoning him towards a restless sleep. His need for privacy groaned at the intrusion but after a certain amount of resistance, Anders opened the door.

The stone door swung open easily on noiseless hinges, and light streamed into the room from the hall now brightly-lit, dazzling him so that for a moment he did not recognise the man that stood outside. Then the man said, “Ser, it’s dinner-time now,” in a voice that seemed to bubble with good humor. Anders identified him as the handsome server he’d encountered earlier in the Hall. Andraste’s knickerweasels; had he been moping around for that long?

“Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t know it’s feeding time already. And you can just call me Anders. “Ser” sounds mildly insulting, because it either makes me sound old or fat.”

“If you prefer, ser, I mean Anders. My name is Veron, and I’m the seneschal’s son. I am to assist him in the running of the Keep.” Veron’s face momentarily glossed with hesitation, before adding, “I would also hate to trouble you, Warden Anders, but there’s something I would like to bring to your attention. The prisoner that the Warden-Commander had released…”

“Oh is he dead?” said Anders casually.

“No ser. He’s back, waiting in the Great Hall.”

“So he wants to be dead?”

“He’s saying that he wants to be made a Grey Warden and he won’t leave, ser.”

“So he wants to be dead, by turning into darkspawn.”

“The thing is,” continued Veron as he glossed over Anders’ comments. “The Warden-Commander has locked himself in his room and won’t respond to anyone. I think he might respond better if a Warden approaches him, ser.”

Anders chafed at the thought of approaching Tabris; he was the last person that he wanted to see. “Go find Oghren, or something.” Anders grumbled. “He’s a Grey Warden too, right?”

“Warden Oghren is too drunk at the moment to approach the Warden-Commander in his present state. When I approached him, he thought that I was a serving girl and tried to grope my chest, ser.”

“I’m afraid I don’t see the problem.” said Anders with a straight face. After watching the server squirm for a moment, he took a deep breath. “It’s all right; I’ll deal with it.”

The server’s face was clearly filled with relief, as Anders grudgingly left his room. When they reached the Great Hall, Anders saw Nathaniel sitting despondently alone at the long table, amidst serving elves who were carrying trays of wine and food in a bustling manner.

“You know,” said Anders as he noticed Nathaniel eyeing the food. “There are easier ways of getting food than joining the Grey Wardens.” Noticing Anders’ arrival, the serving elves dipped a curtsy at him before proceeding back to the kitchen.

Nathaniel jumped up at the sound of Anders’ voice. “I’m sorry. I didn’t notice you there. I hope you’ll allow me to join the Grey Wardens because…”

Anders stopped him. “Nah, save it. I’m not the one making the decisions. I’ll bring you to the Commander and he’ll decide what he wants to do with you.” Anders was mildly satisfied of the way his tone remained neutral and free of any emotional weight.

“All right, sure.” said Nathaniel, awkwardly as he stood up, his light armor creaking slightly. As Anders and Nathaniel followed Veron out of the Great Hall, and up a winding stone stairway, Anders could feel a tangible sense of anxiety pulsating out of Nathaniel. His oily hair looked even slimier now, as Nathaniel was visibly sweating and Anders wondered how he managed to keep his skin complexion clear, given his apparent ability to secrete facial fluids at that rate.

Anders felt slightly horrible at the passing thought, and laid a comforting hand on Nathaniel’s shoulder. “Just relax, all right. The Commander’s really not a scary person.  Well, if you were to ignore the fact that he killed an Archdemon with those butter knives of his.”

Nathaniel’s shoulders visibly relaxed and he shot Anders a thankful look but said nothing. Veron turned towards Anders as they approached a grand-looking door made of oak, with a door knob that looked to be an intricate carving of a hawk. “This is the Warden-Commander’s room. We’ve tried calling him but he’s not responding.” Veron said sheepishly.

“Are you sure he’s in there?” asked Anders intently.

“I am pretty sure, because the serving maids have not seen him come out of the room yet.”

“All right then, let me give a shot.” Anders stood forward and gave a gentle knock on the door. “Commander? Dinner is ready! Your food wants to be eaten by you! Oghren is eating everything!”

After a certain pause, Anders heard Tabris’ voice in response. “I’m busy.”

“There’s someone here to see you as well. Nathaniel is back and he has a deathwish!”

“If he wants to die, kill him yourself.”

“Warden-Commander.” Nathaniel shouted. “I’m here because I want to be a Grey Warden too!”

There was a pregnant pause, followed by several sharp snapping sounds within the room that were audible even from beyond the door. It sounded to Anders as though multiple mousetraps had been set off within the room by a very clumsy, and very fat rat. After a while, Tabris opened the door with a slightly disgruntled look, a look that Anders was sure he gave to Veron a while back as well.

“Sorry I took a while to open the door,” said Tabris absently as he scratched his curly hair. “Disarming all the traps in the room takes some time.”

“It must be horrible for the servants to clean your room.”

“They don’t. I do all the cleaning myself.”

“But… you’re the Warden-Commander.”

“I used to live in the alienage where more than three quarters of all the elven population were servants of some kind,” stated Tabris tiredly. “It wouldn’t feel right to get someone who could have been my kin to wait on me."

Anders slowly looked around as Tabris stepped back and they followed him into the room. The sight rendered him speechless. And he was sure that his pants had mildly stiffened as well.

Everywhere he looked, there were books, shelves and shelves of books from the floor to the ceiling. There were books that were laid on the floor, books that were left turned on the couches, and more stacks of books written in an undecipherable language and placed beside the bookshelves. The furniture was a rich, dark cherry upholstered in green satin prints, and beside it was an opened chest; filled with what appeared to be dyes of different colours, lures and traps. On his table were vials of ominous purple liquids, mushrooms and veiny roots, and a recently used pestle and mortar bowl containing what seemed to be crushed deathroot.

Anders continued to scan the room. Above his bed lined with silk sheets were two crests: a blue griffin which Anders recognised to be the crest of the Grey Wardens, but there was another crest, an enigmatic green symbol comprised of interlocking branches and leaves which he had not seen before. The window curtains were rich, green velvet trimmed in corded fringe and hung from the ceiling to the floor. It was elegant, yet tasteful; opulent, but tempered with an elven touch.

"Your room... is amazing, Commander." Anders whispered in slight awe.

"All this?" Tabris gestured dismissively to his surroundings. "Nah; I just got all of this to look smart, that's all."

Tabris sat on a dark red couch with his arms crossed, and shot Nathaniel a direct look. “So you want to talk to me. Talk.”

“I’ve been thinking about what you did in that dungeon.” said Nathaniel, as he turned away from Tabris’ gaze. “You set me free. Just let me go, despite what I said or what I might do. Why?”

“I’m not here to seek a fight with you, Nathaniel.” Tabris’ face remained impassive and cold.

“Even though I might have been seeking a fight with you?”

“I might have done the same thing in your shoes, if I’d known someone had killed my father.” Tabris pointed out.

“Then take me with you. Make me a Grey Warden.” Nathaniel said determinedly. “I have nowhere else to go. I fully expected to die in there, maybe I even wanted to. But you let me go.” 

“If you’re trying to reclaim your father’s legacy, I can write a letter to King Alistair. Get you a position within the army and if you’re worthy, I’m sure you can rise up through the ranks. There are less dangerous ways to achieve honor and glory than joining the Wardens.”

“But Commander; this place used to be my home. If there’s any way I could reclaim my family’s name, it would be fitting to start here. And, fighting the darkspawn; it’s what I know my father would had done.” Nathaniel’s voice fell sombre.

“I don’t quite understand.”

“My grandfather, Tarleton Howe was also a Grey Warden. My father was considering making me join the Wardens before he changed his mind and sent me to be squired under Ser Varley of Starkhaven.”

Tabris said nothing in response. There was uncomfortable silence lingering in the air, as he looked unyieldingly into Nathaniel’s eyes; an almost metallic glaze to his stare. After a tense moment, Tabris shook his head wearily. “Obviously you’ve made up your mind and nothing I say will change that decision. Veron, please tell your father to prepare for the Joining.”

Nathaniel bowed his head; and when he lifted it, his face was visibly flushed with excitement. “Thank you Commander, you won’t regret this!”

“Well, tell me that after the Joining. Also, call me Tabris,” Tabris said sourly. “Seriously, why doesn’t anyone call me by my name?”

“Probably intimidated by your Archdemon-stabbing skills,” Anders remarked quickly. “Hard not to feel awe-struck everytime you walk into the room, scratching that head of yours.”

“I’ll send word to my father immediately, Commander.” Veron said.

“If there’s nothing else, you all may leave.” Veron and Nathaniel bowed politely at Tabris, and left the room, leaving Anders alone with Tabris. For some reason, Anders found his feet fixed resolutely to the ground, the words of Oghren replaying on loop inside his head.

“Not leaving?” Tabris said quietly. Anders looked up, breath catching in his throat. For the first time, Tabris’ face looked vulnerable, his eyes were misty and his voice betrayed a certain tiredness – resignation, even. 

“Are you all right?” said Anders in concern.

“I’m fine.” Tabris averted his gaze and looked down in silence. Gone was any of his earlier charm, confidence or charisma that he exuded earlier. Anders did not know how to react to this new, strange person that he was meeting for the first time, so he walked over to the couch that Tabris was sitting on, and knelt to Tabris’ eye level.

“Hello there, handsome” said Anders, plastering on a silly grin as he looked up at Tabris’ face.

Tabris’ bewildered expression slowly dissolved into a small smile. “Hello there, stranger.”

“What do you call Nathaniel Howe if he screws up?”

“What?”

“Nathaniel Why!”

Anders was hit by a pillow to his face.

“What do you call a chicken that has been corrupted by the Blight?”

“I do not want to answer…”

“Clarkspawn!”

That one made Tabris laugh a little, before he remembered to groan. Pleased that the tension in the room was slightly abated, Anders continued with his improvised barrage of terrible, bad jokes, reaping perverse pleasure each time Tabris let out an accidental laugh before hitting him with the couch pillow.

“Why do the Dalish elves never travel at night?”

Tabris did not even bother to give a response.

“Because they are _Day_ lish!”

Tabris let out a peal of laughter, a genuine joyous sound that warmed Anders’ heart just listening to it. After Tabris’ laughter had subsided, Anders felt it was time to make a confession. “You know, I never really understood the entire conversation; who’s Howe and his father and all. Too busy being in solitary confinement you know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be silly, you don’t have to apologise for something like that.” Tabris paused, as colour returned to his cheeks. “Besides, it’s not a complicated story. The previous arl of Amaranthine, Rendon Howe had conspired with Teryn Loghain to overthrow the crown. In the process, he murdered Teryn Cousland who was second to the throne, and his entire household. He had also kidnapped Queen Anora before the Landsmeet so she wouldn’t be able to testify against him. When I rescued the queen, he tried to kill me. The rest, I’m sure you can pick up from there.”

“Are you… feeling guilty?” asked Anders intently. “It sounded like what you did to Nathaniel’s dad was justified so I’m sure no one will fault you for it.”

“I’m fine – you don’t believe me, do you?” The look of disbelief on Anders’ face must have been apparent because Tabris gave a slight smile. "It's just... I don't like getting reminded of the repercussions of my actions; that's all."

In that moment, Tabris no longer looked like the invincible Hero of Ferelden, but an ordinary nineteen-year-old male elf. He and the usual tension around his shoulders and face had dissipated. The intimidating aura that came with his legendary title was gone, but what replaced it had taken Anders off-guard. His demeanour had felt common-place; even quaint as in the way Tabris hung his arm and feet around the frame of the couch in a relaxed fashion, as though he was unbothered by human civility and customs. His face bore a slight mischievous glint, a familiar feature that seemed ubiquitious in the faces of elven children within the alienage. Anders also noticed the delicate, youthful features of his sculpted cheekbones, and the quiet vulnerability in his green eyes, and wondered how he could have missed it in the first place.

_Maker, he does have beautiful eyes._

Anders shook himself out of his reverie. "Commander, if it is personal, I should leave..." Anders began.

Tabris raised a gloved hand up. "No. I owe you an explanation for what happened. Anders, will you sit?"

Anders did so, with a nearby chair, elegantly carved in its design.

"I do not regret what happened to Rendon Howe. Killing him was necessary, expedient even and I would do it again." Tabris' expression was neutral, as though he was about to send a pig to the slaughterhouse. "I do regret what happened to his family though. Many of them were innocent, but they were punished nonetheless. It's an unpleasant feeling knowing that you had, on some part, played a role in their downfall."

“I wanted you to be a part of the sentencing, but this is unfortunately, all on me.” Tabris' voice softened. “Especially when I’m the one who caused him to steal from the Keep in the first place.”

Anders nearly laughed out loud in relief. What a waste of time, to have spent all that time dissecting, obsessing over the grubby dwarf's words! A new form of respect welled up within Anders for the Warden-Commander, as he looked at the mage with a questioning expression. "Oh, that nug-smacking dwarf was getting in my head," replied Anders casually. "He said that you were manipulating Nathaniel because his death would have caused an outroar against the humans living in Amaranthine. He said it wouldn’t be politically accepted. So Nathaniel’s release and your apologies were all an act to make him feel indebted to you; so he wouldn't return and kill you again."

Tabris’ face grew so crunched that he looked as though someone had slaughtered a cat in front of him. “Wait, back up. It was obvious he never was trying to kill me. What are you on about?”

"It came out of Nathaniel’s mouth, ser. We were all there.” Anders said drily. “We all heard him saying he wanted to kill you and finish the job if you were to let him go. Hence all that apology and benevolence you’d shown? Oghren felt that you were muttering sweet nothings into his ear, so as to manipulate him into not returning back to kill you.”

"Oghren's speculations are so spurious, I feel offended just by listening to it." Tabris said sourly. "I did not lie because there's never a need to; it's obvious he never did wanted to kill me in the first place."

Anders was taken aback. "How could you..."

"All that posturing he did earlier? It was obvious that was all hot air," continued Tabris with a hint of impatience. "It was pretty evident if you checked his belongings because there were _no weapons_ in the chest. Furthermore, all of the things that he had stolen were things of little monetary value, but of great personal significance: photo frames and family items. That hardly sounds like the motive of someone who's about to murder someone who's at least an experienced warrior. Besides, he mentioned that he was squired under Ser Rodolphe Varley, who's the best archer in Starkhaven. This meant that he was trained as an archer, most probably a sniper for the past several years. Well, not only did we _not find a bow_ on him, he would have had an easier time sneaking into Vigil's Keep by sniping at least a few Wardens but he didn't. That's admirable restraint, and a sign of his better character compared to his father. It was also what convinced me to allow him to be part of the Wardens."

Anders stared in astonishment, awed at how much he was able to absorb and the speed at which he made his conclusions. "That’s… fast thinking, Commander.”

"I cannot afford not to think fast, Anders. Where I came from, you have to be on your toes every day if you were to survive. And being Warden-Commander now, my community’s survival is dependent on every choice that I make every day. I have to make sure that every choice is a good one.”

Upon seeing Anders’ crestfallen expression, Tabris softened his tone. “But… I’m certain that’s how you had to live in the Circle, no? We’re pretty similar, you and I.”

“No. I’m prettier.”

The room erupted into laughter, transmuting the previous tension into lighthearted mirth. Anders was not sure how long they laughed, but in that moment contained a space that allowed both of them to breathe, a space that carried a soft calmness to it; one that signified goodwill and possibly, connection. Anders sat in his chair, seemingly immobile but as he finally stretched in his chair, he offered Tabris a look of wistful look of appreciation, one that connoted everything that needed to say, that could not be said. But at least one thing needed to be said.

"I'm sorry Commander, for even doubting your character." 

"You should," nodded the elf with a sly look on his face. "because in reality, it's probably worse."

Anders grinned. "I should probably heed my mother's advice on men like you. I have a thing for bad boys."

A small look of appreciation flicked across the Commander's face. "I didn't know I was your type, mage."

"Anyone who feeds me is my type, Commander." Anders replied innocently. With perfect opportune timing, his stomach grumbled audibly. 

“I’m hungry.”

Tabris laughed. “Shall we head off to dinner?”

“Let’s go.”  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “After eating, remind me to send a letter to Divine Justina because we now have concrete proof of the Maker’s existence.” is a reference to Scream Queens. 
> 
> Tabris’ pricking his food with a needle is a traditional Chinese method of detecting poisons. Silver metal reacts with the sulphur in many poisons and tarnishes it; turning the needle black. 
> 
> Nathaniel returning back when given a chance to leave to join the Grey Wardens, is canonical in the game. 
> 
> “Call me Tabris,” and the fact that no one ever calls him Tabris, except maybe Anders in future chapters is a reference to Moby Dick. No one ever calls Ishmael his name except one. 
> 
> Speech by Oghren is an example of the Marxist notion of false consciousness. I was inspired by Zizek’s reading of false consciousness in the workplace, and how bosses try to be friendly and nice to you in order to manipulate you into staying in your low-paying job. In this sense, false consciousness produces docility to an inherently oppressive system through the guise of niceness. 
> 
> The phrase, “Anders had honestly believed in Tabris’ offer, that he was sincere and that he strove to make Vigil’s Keep a real and proper home. But Oghren’s taunts had cast a huge doubt over Tabris’ intentions, and as Anders stared blankly at the empty space above his bed, he found that he had grown tired, and weary-hearted,” is heavily inspired by William Butler Yeats’ poem, Adam’s Curse:  
> I had a thought for no one’s but your ears:  
> That you were beautiful, and that I strove  
> To love you in the old high way of love;  
> That it had all seemed happy, and yet we’d grown  
> As weary-hearted as that hollow moon.
> 
> The joking scene between Anders and Tabris in order to get Tabris to open up was heavily drawn from my own experiences with a friend back when I was in Ise-shi, Japan. This chapter is dedicated to him. :)


	5. The Basement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to @touchreceptors for her amazing beta work, @kf1n3 for her commissioned art!

Five days had passed. Army reinforcements from Denerim had arrived at Vigil’s Keep, transforming the keep from a sleepy solitary outpost, into a full militarised force. No one saw fit to question the Warden-Commander on the upgraded defences of Vigil’s Keep, but upon Tabris’ insistence, all templars that were part of the contingent were unceremoniously turned away at the castle gate, much to the consternation and distress of the Chantry in Denerim. At all times of the day, two knights now stood at each side of the massive stone gate of the castle and above the walls, and armored archers could be seen regularly patrolling along the parapets to the archer towers.

However, it was the courtyard that eventually became the bustling hub of Vigil’s Keep.  Training grounds and a blacksmith workshop were quickly assembled within the courtyard, which soon became the site of all military training and arms production, much to Anders’ dismay. After all, a few days ago the courtyard was filled with wild flowers and herbs, benches, and even the few pillows Anders would place across the grass as he spread his limbs out to lazily gaze at the sky. Now, the courtyard was filled with targets, dummies, training equipment, and Oghren’s presence, hardly someone Anders would hardly consider as recreational.

Combat training became a daily occurrence and once the forge bore signs of life in the morning, it became impossible to distinguish the sounds of training swords clashing from the heavy clang of the blacksmith hammer as it met reinforced steel. Unfortunately for Anders, he found that as a Grey Warden, he too had to participate in combat training. While Oghren was left entirely in charge of running the training programme for the castle knights, Anders was paired up with Nathaniel as they participated in dagger lessons with Tabris at the break of dawn.

“I don’t see why I have to learn this,” complained Anders as he tried to unsheathe a hidden dagger from within his Grey Warden robes. His grip missed, and the dagger slid out of its hidden compartment, its blade making a sad clink as it met the ground.

“It’s really not so bad,” Nathaniel drew his own dagger from his belt. Tabris had already allowed him to move onto target practice, which made Anders grit his teeth in slight frustration. As Nathaniel narrowed his focus onto the target dummy, he steadied his breathing, cocked his arm and let his wrist go loose. With a calm exhale, Nathaniel sent the dagger flying in a flash of silver. It sparkled, a shooting star of steel. He smiled grimly as it struck home.

“Remind me not to play darts with you under any circumstances.” Anders muttered under his breath. If Nathaniel had suffered any fatigue or stress upon his recovery from his Joining, he did not show it. Unlike Anders, who recovered consciousness within a few hours, Nathaniel had lain comatose for almost a day, and Tabris had stayed in his room during the entire period; checking his pulse and ensuring that his body temperature did not exceed a critical point. When he finally awoke, all Nathaniel would say about his nightmare experiences was that he was glad that it was finally over. In his interactions with Nathaniel, Anders had found him to be a resolute figure, if not slightly devoid of humor. His face almost always had a determined, hard look to it, but aside from that, Anders was surprised to find that he was an easy person to talk to, one who would often offer quiet, thoughtful responses to his flippant questions.

“Anders, you’re going at it with the wrong angle,” observed Tabris. “Try again with your left hand moving at a lower angle.”

This time, Anders was able to grasp the hilt of the dagger, but his grip was not firm enough and the dagger clattered to the floor once again, the silver taunting him with its tinkle. Anders swore under his breath. At the same time, Nathaniel threw another dagger towards his target, and the blade clanged as it landed a hair’s breadth from the one he’d already embedded in the bull’s eye.

Tabris’ blond brows rose, accentuating his green eyes. “You’ve got impressive aim.”

“I’m an archer,” Nathaniel shrugged his shoulders in dismissal. “It’s in the wrist-work; all about how you snap it.”

“Yes, that’s very helpful, Nathaniel. Howe do you do it?” Anders said sarcastically.

“Like I said, it’s all in the wrist. You have to bend slightly at the knees with your shoulders back…”

“Well Nathaniel,” Tabris interjected. “I think you’re fine for now. You can move on to archery target practice if you like.”

As Nathaniel cluelessly walked away, Tabris gave Anders an encouraging smile. “This must be tough on you.”

Anders’ shoulders drooped. “I’m not getting this, am I?”

“Hey, if you were trying to teach me how to cast a fireball in just one day, I’ll probably struggle just as much.”

“Sounds stupid, but I feel guilty for stabbing them. You know, I bet a lot of people would stop dagger training if these dummies would scream.” Anders released a huge sigh as he placed his arm around the straw dummy. “I really appreciate the training Commander, but I don’t really see the point to it when I could cast any spell to repel any enemy that’s approaching me. Back in the Circle, all mages had to learn how to stun surrounding enemies with our minds before we learn any other combat spells.”

“That’s the first nice thing you’ve said about the Circle, Anders.”

“I’m willing to compromise on my prejudices to get out of training,” Anders winked.

“Sure, but what about enemies who don’t have minds? Those that don’t get affected by mental blasts.”

Anders blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“Skeletons, ghosts, undead in general. They don’t react well to mental blasts.” Tabris explained. “And in my experience fighting with darkspawn, mages often get ambushed in the back when their mana gets depleted. Having the option to knife them in the guts would be good, too, don’t you think?”

“Oh,” winced Anders.

“You were okay with roasting them like marshmallows a few nights ago, but now you have an issue with kniving them?”

“It’s about being consistent, you know.” Anders grinned at Tabris, feeling his face relax against a sudden morning breeze that offered brief respite from the training, his ponytail swept across his neck. It was an easy silence that soon descended upon the two of them, as Tabris suddenly appeared to fall into deep thought. Anders took the opportunity to study Tabris, hoping that he would not catch him.

Tabris was a good deal shorter than he was, but then pretty much everyone in this kingdom dwarfed in comparison to Anders. Tabris’ build however, was neither bulky like Oghren, or half-starved like many of the serving elves in the Circle of Magi. Instead he was well-defined and toned,  which gave him an easy appearance of power and good health. There was something unnerving about the wreckage of those blond locks, in a way that made Anders' fingers flex instinctively. And his _eyes_. The emerald in them was striking, making those eyes appear full of life even when Tabris’ expression was inscrutable. They were almost hypnotising, actually, especially when they looked up and met Anders’ gaze.

“You know, you may want to be a little less obvious when you’re checking people out.” Tabris’ smirk was unabashedly pompous. _Damn it, he caught me!_ Anders scolded himself as he thought of a quick comeback.

“You have… some dandelion in that bird-nest hair of yours.” Anders quickly reached out and snatched a non-existent particle from his hair before flickering it to the ground. The lightness of Tabris’ hair as it brushed against his hand was feather-like and almost intangible, like baby's breath.

“Oh.” Tabris looked almost disappointed, and Anders’ heart soared in victory and relief.

“What were you thinking about, before?”

“Nothing, it just occurred to me that the Circle of Magi… they didn’t teach you non-magical techniques of self-defense, did they?”

“Nah, I don’t think they did. And I’m not complaining, truth be told. Magical lessons were hard enough as things were.”

“It just seems strange to me that mages, especially the combat mages in Ostagar, were never taught how to use weapons."

Anders frowned. "I don't get your point."

"Well, magic cannot be relied upon when mana runs low and most mages tend to be vulnerable to attacks an hour into battle. If you want to lower casualties especially in drawn-out wars, the commonsensical thing is to give mages some other means of defence no?" Tabris pointed out. 

"I guess so... What are you trying to get at?"

"Well, I wonder if the reasons for not doing so were political. Control, basically. Not giving weapons to mages limits the means of rebellion and resistance for the Circle of Magi. Whenever any mages escape, they get caught easily because templars have a gift which disables their magical powers. I imagine more mages would’ve had better luck escaping if they’d been able to fight back physically, when their magical abilities get disabled.”

Anders felt his eyes widening, the realization sinking into him with Tabris’ words. “I don’t think you’re far from the mark actually. Mages are not allowed to handle any weapons in the Circle; they are heavily punished for that.”

Tabris’ eyes glimmered. “You know Anders, most templar armors have a weak spot around here,” Tabris pointed to both of the hip regions of the dummy, “and here. This is where the armor is the softest, so as to allow the wearer to turn and move around – but it’s also soft enough for a dagger to pierce through. A dagger to the hip rarely kills, but it will incapacitate any templars from giving chase.”

“How do I go about it again?”

“Angle’s great, but keep your grip firm and plunge the dagger horizontally into the hip. Make sure the dagger’s at least three-quarters in.” Tabris instructed, as he rubbed the back of his neck absent-mindedly. Anders noticed that Tabris had a tendency to do that when he thought that no-one was looking at him.

The motion was quick, swift. In a flash of silver, Anders found that his hand was on the dagger’s hilt and in the next moment, lodged in the dummy’s pancreas. Or where his pancreas would have been.

“That’s great, Anders.” Tabris smiled in approval. “But next time, remember to grab the dagger out.”

 

* * *

 

That day, the lunch was good. Anders surprised himself by consuming an entire, juicy heron all by himself. As he leaned back in his chair, he released a huge burp and smiled at the waft of rich spice emitting from his mouth. Anders was happy.

“Warden Anders.” A handsome man dressed neatly in a loam-coloured tunic and soft trousers approached him.

Anders grabbed his plate away in a hurried fashion. “No one told me that I couldn’t have a whole heron to myself.” Anders began defensively.

“No, ser. I’m here to tell you that you’re needed.” The man said, his lips trying to suppress a smile his eyes could not hide. It took a minute for Anders to recognise that the man was Veron, the chief butler who was also the seneschal’s son.  

“Oh, and here I was thinking that you were going to bring me my dessert,” Anders’ smile was wry as he gazed up into his blue eyes. “Or are you going to be my dessert?”

“I’m sure I can ask the cook for…” Veron paused, the words hanging mid-sentence. “Are you... flirting with me?”

“Well, maybe?” Ander grinned and shrugged.

“I… don’t quite know what to say,” Veron’s face was turning red.

“Then let’s be quiet, and let the silence between us do all the talking.” Anders said in a charming tone as he leaned in, his fingers pressing to his lips as his eyes roamed over the stammering butler. Men, women; no one was immune to his charms, except maybe templars, but Anders had always noted that the religiously faithful seldom had any appreciation for wit.

“I didn’t know you were attracted to guys, ser.”

“I’m not,” Anders admitted cheerfully. “I was just joking, but I’m sure you must get that a lot.”

“Oh.” Veron’s shyness faded in an instant, a frown crossing his features, but his expression was thoughtful. Anders wondered if he had carried the joke too far and was about to apologise when Veron started speaking again. “I was sent here by the Warden-Commander because your presence is required in the war room immediately.” His voice had turned professional and neutral, as though nothing had happened earlier.

Anders sat up straight. “Is someone in need of healing?”

“No, ser. Seneschal Varel has come across some new information on the darkspawn attack, and the Warden-Commander seeks the counsel of all the Grey Wardens. Warden Oghren and Howe are already in the war room, ser.” Something seemed to harden in Veron’s face as Howe’s name passed his lips, but his expression remained inscrutable, and Anders wondered for a moment if he had just imagined it.

Anders grabbed his staff as he rose from his seat, and the two of them started down the corridor. Seneschal Varel stood waiting for them in front of two massive doors guarded by uniformed men-at-arms. He bowed slightly to Anders and snapped his fingers. The men-at-arms swung the heavy doors inward. He could get used to all this bowing, Anders thought.

Everyone in the war room looked up at Anders upon his arrival. Aside from Tabris, Oghren and Nathaniel in their usual Warden doublets, there were two other people that Anders could not recognise. One was a dumpy middle-aged woman whose white hair was tied in braids, and another was a young-looking knight who looked out of place dressed in full armor among the rest of them. Anders approached the war table and settled uncomfortably into the seat at one end. The war room was vast, with a high vaulted ceiling, and walls covered with what seemed like acres of heavy, red velvet drapery. Candles were alight in all corners of the room.

“This is Warden Anders, the resident mage of the Grey Wardens,” Varel announced to the room. “Warden Anders, I’m sure everyone in this room must be familiar to you, except for Ser Garevel who is our new captain of the guard, and Mistress Woolsey, sent by order of the First Warden at the Weisshaupt, headquarters of the Wardens.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Ser Anders,” said Garevel in a gruff voice.

“I’m at your service,” Woolsey curtsied gracefully. “I am to act as treasurer of the arling of Amaranthine. The First Warden believed local men could not be trusted for this post.”

“One of those “local” men is right here, Mistress Woolsey,” Varel growled.

“I have every confidence in the Vigil’s loyalty in the matter of arms. But gold corrupts even the most resolute soul.”

“If you’re from Weisshaupt, you must come from the Anderfels, right?” Anders could hear the stricken note creeping into his own voice. He had not seen anyone from his father's homeland at all, and he had always been described as having Anderfels features; despite not knowing what they look like exactly. 

“Not Weisshaupt itself, unfortunately. I am from many places and I go where the Wardens command. Now, Warden-Commander,” Woolsey passed several scrolls to Tabris. “If we can get down to proper business, I’ve calculated the revenue earned by the arling as you’d asked, and Amaranthine is on the brink of economic collapse.”

“How very dramatic of you,” answered Tabris pleasantly as he pored over her scrolls. “What’s wrong?”

“Trade must flow. Merchant caravans are being systematically attacked somewhere along Pilgrim’s Path and it is the only route that can reliably provision an army, feed a city and maintain civilisation. A short-term thinker sees only immediate financial loss, but without essential supplies, we can expect mass starvation and anarchy.”

“Do you think this is the darkspawn’s doing?” asked Nathaniel intently.

“It most likely is, ser. The attack on merchants only began shortly after the darkspawn invasion in Vigil’s Keep. Thankfully, there are still other routes that caravans may take, but they are long and perilous, which is enough to dissuade more than half of the traders that Amaranthine normally attracts from entering the arling.”

“How long do you think the city can stand with Pilgrim’s Path blocked?” Tabris interlocked his fingers on the table.

“A month at most. It’s best that this is dealt with in the soonest possible time, Warden-Commander.”

“I understand.” Tabris turned towards the guard-captain with a resolute look. “Ser Garevel, send a knight contingent to deal with this as possible.”

“Thank you, Warden-Commander,” Woolsey’s back stiffened as she curtsied in response.

“At once, Warden-Commander,” Garevel raised his hand in salute. “I also have a matter to bring to your attention.”

“Of course. What is the darkspawn situation in Armaranthine?”

“Grim, ser. It seems as if every darkspawn in the kingdom has been driven here.” Garevel shook his head. “The soldiers are split between protecting the Vigil and the city of Amaranthine. Scouts report darkspawn throughout the arling, and amassing. When the soldiers aren’t patrolling, the land is dangerous, Commander. Very dangerous.”

“I heard that the Wardens in the Keep had a lead that we could follow. You know, before they died.”

“ The Orlesians—Wardens, I mean—began gathering information about the darkspawn while they were here. The most promising lead they found was a wild tale a couple of hunters told.”

“Since when is a hunting tale a lead?” Oghren barked.

“The Wardens seem to think it was important, ser.” Garevel’s voice faltered a little upon Oghren’s intrusion. “These hunters, Colbert and… well, the other one… claim to have stumbled on an entrance to the Deep Roads. Darkspawn all over the place, they said. And this was before the fiends appeared throughout the whole arling.”

“So you think that those hunters may have found the darkspawn breeding ground?” Tabris asked intently.

“Yes Warden-Commander. The hunter, Colbert had told the Wardens that the darkspawn were last seen in Knotwood Hills. We might want to investigate that as soon as possible.”

“We should set off tomorrow then,” Tabris decided. “Removing the breeding grounds should be our first priority and would reduce the darkspawn numbers all around Amaranthine.”

“Yer gonna chase an old man’s tale down as yer first priority?” Oghren said disbelievingly. Anders straightened and shot Oghren a dirty look. Over the past few days, it had seemed as though Oghren had been undermining Tabris’ authority at every turn, and instilling doubt about his character and leadership to everyone in the room, even as they appeared to share certain paradoxical moments of friendship. 

Tabris looked at Oghren evenly. “Each broodmother can breed around thousands of darkspawn in their lifetime. Just one broodmother is capable of overrunning the arling by itself. We have to investigate every rumor, or there might not be an Amaranthine in a few weeks.” He turned to Varel. “Any news of the new Wardens from Orlais who were supposed to join the Keep?”

“Orlais sent a dozen Wardens to the Vigil to await your arrival but the news is bad, ser. We have discovered their bodies in a nearby field a day’s march from here. However, we believe that one Warden may still be alive. He was sent ahead of the rest to track down some leads a fortnight ago. We are still investigating where he may have gone.”

“It seems strange that he hasn’t returned, doesn’t it?” Anders felt compelled to add _something_ to the discussion.

“His situation is not, shall we say, hopeful, but we suspect that his trail may lead us to whatever’s causing the darkspawn insurgence.”

“And whatever’s causing them to speak,” said Oghren darkly. “It’s unnatural.”

“Do we know why the darkspawn did not retreat back into the Deep Roads after the Archdemon’s death?” Nathaniel asked.

“One of the Wardens said the archdemon’s strength gave the horde some semblance of purpose. If they’ve found some other purpose, I shudder at the thought.” said Varel stiffly, with his shoulders most definitely not shuddering.

“Is there any more news that needs to be brought to my notice? If not…” Tabris started to rise from his chair.

“I think there is, ser.” A voice came from the back of the room. It was Veron, who had been standing behind Anders the entire time.

“I didn’t know butlers were allowed into our meetings.” Oghren commented.

“He’s not a butler, he’s the seneschal’s son who governs the day-to-day running of the Keep. His word is as important as any of yours,” Tabris pointed out firmly. “Feel free to speak, Veron.”

“During the defence against the darkspawn, our resident stonesmith, Dworkin used some explosions that caved in some of the deep cellars within the basement. We suspect that there might still be pockets of darkspawn below, trapped. In time, they may dig their way out.”

Tabris’ eyes narrowed. “None of us could sense any darkspawn in the nearby vicinity. Are you sure it is true?” 

“I can personally confirm it.” Veron said simply. “I had men who unearthed some of the rubble and we took a look. I suspect that the basement of Vigil’s Keep extends further than we think.”

“Well, let’s clear the basement of darkspawn then. I’d rather not have a surprise attack sprung on us while we’re all sleeping.” Tabris turned towards Nathaniel. “This used to be your home. Do you know how far the basements extend to?

“Not really, all I know is the basement was separate from the dungeons, as a kind of storage space where the Howes kept the things that are important to us: our weapons, crests, records, heirlooms.” Nathaniel looked wry. “I was in the basement where the Wardens caught me trying to get some of my family items back.”

“Well if you were to see anything belonging to your family in the basement, you’re free to take it.”

Nathaniel shook his head. “Everything technically belongs to the Wardens now.”     

“And you’re a Warden now,” replied Tabris with a tone of finality, to which Nathaniel had no response.

Anders could almost feel Oghren’s disapproval emitting along with his dwarven body odor, but elected to ignore it.  As he stood up, he noticed Nathaniel’s face softening momentarily, before the customary harsh lines returned to it. The Wardens followed Veron down the castle hallway and a back stairway leading into the basement, where a solitary knight stood by the door. At the sight of Tabris, she saluted and stood aside as the Wardens made their way into the newly excavated site.

Even though Anders could not see anything in the basement, he was thankful for the darkness. A rank stench billowed outwards once Veron swung the door inwards, and light from Veron’s torch spilled into the chamber, exposing the horrors within. It took all of Anders’ self-determination not to flee when they saw what was inside the basement.

The chamber best resembled the charnel pit of some savage predator. Dozens of rotting darkspawn corpses were strewn all over the floor, some missing limbs, others so decomposed it was difficult to know what species of darkspawn they had been. Anders recoiled in disgust as he saw maggots writhing atop the bodies, crawling in and out of wounds, fighting with each other for the tastiest morsels of flesh.

“I guess the darkspawn,” muttered Anders as he gingerly stepped over a pile of rotting corpses, “are now deadspawn.” Anders could hear a muffled laugh coming from Tabris but apart from that, his hilarious comment was well-ignored.

“So you’re going to be sticking around with us, Ser Veron?” Nathaniel looked at Veron. “It might be dangerous for you.”

“Someone needs to be holding the torch.” Veron replied formally. “I will stay out of the fighting by remaining in the background, Warden Nathaniel. And I can take care of myself.”

“Have I seen you before?” Nathaniel asked suddenly. “You look somewhat familiar.”

“I lived in the arling that was ruled by your family, ser. I’m sure you must have seen me somewhere.”

Once they entered the first room, they came across several human corpses, and a dead mabari hound. The corpses had a pale, sullen complexion, as though their cheeks had fallen in, and their eyes had turned deathly yellow. Anders winced at the sallowness of their skin; which was all so caved in that it looked as though a malevolent spirit had sucked the souls dry from the bodies. As he looked to the right, he found Tabris kneeling by the dead hound picking up something that was attached to its mouth. A bounded scroll, by the looks of it. Tabris’ brow knitted in concentration as he tried to make out words which were already besmirched in blood.

“There’s someone by the name of Adria, who brought a number of Vigil’s Keep survivors down to the basement to stay clear of the fight. They are seeking refuge at the end of this basement.” 

“Adria?” Nathaniel’s eyes were widening as he took the scroll from Tabris. “She was one of the helpers at the Keep. Adria was like a mother to me; we must save her!”

“Let’s move then,” said Tabris, his voice low. As they proceeded to the next room with an added sense of urgency, Anders felt something probing in his mind; a whisper that became more noticeable with each step that he took. Although he couldn’t make out any words, there was a barbaric hint of cruelty to the tone – bloodlust without remorse, destruction without relief. It was then that Anders realised that what he was hearing. They were the murmuring thoughts, the collective consciousness of the nearby darkspawn. Anders shuddered at the thought, wondering if there was any way he could block it off.

“Darkspawn up ahead beyond that room,” Tabris said quietly, echoing what everyone already felt. “Probably around five in there; I’ll set a trap.” 

Anders observed in rapt silence as Tabris laid a curious white globe on top of a delicate looking trap trigger, and placed it gently near the door. “Stand a safe distance behind that pillar, guys.” Tabris warned, a look of concentration moving across his face. “When it hits, it blows.”

Oghren let out a dirty chuckle. “Heh, that’s what they say about Oghren too.”

Anders moved back and crouched behind Nathaniel, who was already readying his bow. Suddenly, Tabris kicked open the door and threw a green flask of acid against the lumbering darkspawn within the room. Taken by surprise, the darkspawn screeched as the acidic liquid started to burn the skin off their face. Anders watched in revulsion as one hurlock tried to claw away at its face, before falling to its knees. The rest of the darkspawn charged towards Tabris, who was retreating as fast as he could. Brandishing their weapons, the darkspawn roared as they ran past the door. Feeling anxious, Anders cast a fireball in mid-concentration in case the trap failed.

_Snap._

One hurlock stepped on the trigger. All Anders could see was a brilliant flash of white, and a moment later, he felt a wave of torrential ice and heard the sound of an explosion. Along with the other Wardens, Anders was pushed back by the blast’s shockwave, though he easily recovered due to his crouching position. As the icy mist generated by the explosion cleared, Anders saw that the once-rampaging group of darkspawn now laid lifeless on the floor, frozen solid in clear ice.

“Maker, I’mma get frostbite from this,” muttered Oghren, as he dusted off the dirt particles that had landed on his armor during the explosion.

Nathaniel inhaled sharply, his eyes widening as he turned. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Where did you get that bomb?”

“I made it,” Tabris said simply. “If everyone’s all right, we can proceed.”

“I see the rumors about you were not exaggerated,” whispered Nathaniel.

"Someday we ought to sit around and have a discussion about the various rumors you'd heard about me. You collect gossip worse than a fisherman's wife on Chantry day." 

As they moved on, the nagging whisper in Anders’ mind dissipated, and he knew that they were safe, at least for the moment. After they exited the room, all that was left that was not caved in was an endless-looking basement corridor that seemed to stretch miles before them, musty-smelling and murky black beyond the light emitting from Veron’s torch. Anders looked around and saw that cobwebs hung as thick as bed curtains in some spots, and in other areas looked to be disturbed only recently.

“How long does this basement go, Nate?” asked Anders.

“The Vigil goes deep. Real deep. The hallways down here have been crumbling for years and decades.” replied Nathaniel in a surly voice.

“And Dworkin’s explosives didn’t do the structures any favours,” added Veron. For some reason, Anders found Veron's chattiness a little disconcerting for a senior servant of the Keep. “We don’t know how far the basements go but we know that the Vigil has always been here, since the time of the Avvar barbarians.”

Finally, they reached the end of the corridor which was entirely caved in by huge boulders. Standing at the caved-in site were signs of human life: people dressed in torn clothes as they walked around mindlessly. However as the Wardens approached them, something felt very wrong to Anders.

 “Adria!” Nathaniel cried out in relief as he grabbed the arm of a woman dressed in purple robes. “You’re okay…”

The woman turned around and what Anders saw was the stuff made for bard songs. If the song was a horror story. And the bard was particularly sadistic. Adria’s face was tearing apart and her jaw had stretched open so wide, it was barely hanging together by a few strands of muscle sinew. Her eyes had rolled to the back of her head and she opened her mouth even further to let out a wordless scream. Nathaniel gazed back in horror as Adria raised her skeletal arm and clawed at Nathaniel. However, Oghren was already there and bashed Adria’s skull in with his dwaven axe, knocking her back against the boulders. Splats of diseased brain matter splattered all over Nathaniel's neck and cheek.

The remaining ghouls started to swarm the group. Anders tried to cast a repelling glyph but was swiped at by an angry-looking ghoul, which sent him flying across the ground. Suddenly, the ghoul jumped on Anders and started clawing at his face. Up close, Anders could see it now – the purple sunken cheeks marked by disease, the eyes already driven by insanity and desperation.  Just as he raised in arms in defence, the ghoul froze in action and let out a sudden whimper. When it collapsed, Anders saw a dagger lodged between its ribcage and Veron standing over him, his face flushed with adrenaline.

“Thanks,” said Anders as he was helped up to his feet by Veron. Sensing where help was needed, Anders cast a protective ward around the basement. The dirt ground began to glow an encouraging green light which rejuvenated Anders as he aimed several arcane bolts towards the remaining walking corpses. Thankfully the battle was short as the ghouls were unarmed, and already in a decomposing state.

“What was that?” Anders asked, after the last corpse disintegrated into dust upon its collapse. “Are they even human?”

“They used to be.” Tabris said softly. “That’s blight sickness, which happens when a non-Warden comes into excessive contact with darkspawn blood.”

“I wish…” Nathaniel spoke, quiet. “There was something we could do to Adria.” His eyes were glazed over but asides from that and bits of brain tissue clinging to his skin, he looked perfectly dandy. 

“Blight sickness is incurable, Nathaniel.” Tabris laid a hand on Nathaniel in comfort. “There’s nothing we could do.”

Anders stood away as Tabris continued to console Nathaniel, after which Nathaniel requested to be alone with Adria’s body. Suddenly, Anders felt a warm presence behind him and saw Tabris offering a gentle, albeit worried smile.

“You’re not hurt, are you?”

“Only my pride I’m afraid, for being accosted so easily.” Anders winced at the scratch across his cheek. “Those ghouls didn’t have poison underneath their fingernails or anything right?”

“I don’t think so. Their nails are known to cause permanent scarring though.”

“But I can’t go on looking…” Anders began panicking until he noticed a side-smirk emerging from Tabris’ lips. “Oh haha,” said Anders as he prodded Tabris with his staff. “How am I supposed to make side-income at the Pearl doing exotic dancing with my face scarred?”

“Slap an eye-patch on and charge extra for pirate fetishes?”

“All right, but only for you,” Anders winked and Tabris reciprocated by way of a huge grin. As they continued to walk in silence, Anders asked, “Do you think Nathaniel will be fine?”

“He’s tougher than bronto hide. I’m sure he’ll manage.”

“It can’t be easy for him.”

“I know, what happened was horrible.” Tabris bit his lower lip as a pensive look crossed his face. “Perhaps I should not have brought him down with us; that was a mistake.”

“You couldn’t have known, Tabris… I mean Commander.”

Tabris looked up at Anders upon his pronouncement of his name. A warm smile broke out before he quickly turned away, and gave a small nod. 

Anders gulped. That was stupid, he thought. It was just a nod, but there was something strangely comforting in that gesture - a lovely warm luminescence emitting from his chest that slowly enveloped his entire being. As they walked back up to the castle, Anders was conscious only of an unfamiliar and inexplicable feeling of appreciation - a feeling he had longed for since the day he was imprisoned at the Circle and he had left the safe and familiar walls of his home. He did not know why the presence and the singular gesture of this man should give him this warm feeling of belonging; and he was too bruised and physically exhausted to figure it out. It was enough to feel companionship. 

And that was Anders’ rationalization to himself on his way out of the basement and onto the castle grounds.

 

* * *

 

_Anders stood in front of a wooden shed, as he watched the surrounding farmhouses get razed to the ground. People around him were running away as fast as they could, carrying their children while screaming out in panic as a group of hurlocks cornered them against a giant oak tree. One woman looked up at him, eyes wide in panic as she tried to look for an escape. Anders did nothing but look on passively as she was impaled by the end of a spear; the signs of life slowly ebbing out of her panicked eyes._

_An inhumane, insatiable hunger started to grow within Anders. It was obscene in its gnawing, and Anders could feel his heart blackening as the desire to revel in the wanton human slaughter only grew stronger with each passing moment. His staff was bathed in an unholy light. He grabbed it, picked up his pace and joined a small disparate horde of genlocks as they broke down the sealed doors of the farm’s granary._

_The townspeople were huddled together within the granary’s interiors; fear and hatred evident in their eyes. Suddenly, the men yelled something intelligible as they grabbed the surrounding pitchforks and charged at the darkspawn, towards their death. The darkspawn easily broke through their assault with their iron-cast weapons, though a few hurlocks were felled by some well-placed blows. Anders found himself conjuring a strange fire spell that he could not identify, but as he was about to release the pent up magic within him, he felt a sharp pain from his abdomen. As he faltered back, his body started to fall and Anders found himself collapsed to the ground. His breathing became shallow. He glanced up, seeing a brown haired farmer with a pitchfork poised to stab him, his eyes desperate._

_“Die, darkspawn!” the farmer yelled as he plunged the pitchfork downwards, finishing him off. Anders closed his eyes tightly against the fatal blow he knew would come._

 

* * *

Anders awoke with a start, bolting upright from his bed and gasping for air. He touched his face and realised that tears were streaming down his cheeks, almost indistinguishable from the heavy sweat that lined his forehead. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness of his surroundings, he found relief in the peaceful silence of his room. It was all a dream. Again.

Soaked in sweat, Anders realised that his entire body was trembling, his heart beating furiously in his chest. He pushed back his dampened hair with one unsteady hand, taking a deep, calming breath.  The nightmares had never been this intense. Most of the time, it involved being in the mind of a hurlock mage as it scurried along the blighted lands of Southern Ferelden. This was the first time he was involved in a battle, killing innocent villagers. And worst of all, the nightmare actually felt _real_. Just recalling the sight of killing innocents was enough to chill Anders’ to the core; it was everything that he stood against, and his discipline as a Spirit Healer served to reinforce that.  However even as he disavowed the violence in his dreams, a voice inside Anders suggested that his nightmares might be but an inevitable warning of what he was going to become; a corruption of his eventual self. After all, was it not true that the hunger he felt in his dreams felt similar to his unexplained insatiable appetites that never seemed to go away even after a heavy meal?

He sighed, closing his eyes and trying to relax. But inside his mind, the nightmare replayed over and over, every bit as real as it had been while he had slept. He groaned miserably, unable to escape the guilt and doubt that plagued his mind. Hanging his head, Anders wondered if he would ever find peace before the sun arose. Deciding that some fresh air might help, he quickly got dressed and wandered down to the Great Hall.

The Great Hall was lightly illuminated by wall torches, but the lighting gave the castle a distinct ominous feeling that Anders was unable to shrug off. A moment later, a soft sound from behind startled him and he whirled around. It was Tabris, stepping out from the darkness, his eyes glinting like a cat in night-time.

“Anders?” Tabris’ voice rang in puzzlement. “What are you doing here at this hour of the night?”

“Came out here to fart.”

Tabris’ laughter rang like music through the still air, and warmth crept slowly into Anders’ chest. Making him laugh seemed like a significant achievement, especially in these conditions. “What are you doing here, Commander?”

“I’m here to investigate something,” said Tabris lightly. “Probably my imagination but something feels a little strange to me. Like the Fade feels a little torn around here.”

This, Anders did not expect. “You can sense the Fade? But only mages can sense the Fade!”

“Elves have a stronger sensitivity to the Fade than humans, actually,” said Tabris. “Not as much as mages of course, but we can often sense and see some cracks and holes if we are sharp enough. Our receptivity to the energies of the Fade is one reason why Tevinter magisters used to sacrifice elves for magical experiments.”

"I didn't know that. But what do you sense, Commander?”

“I don’t know,” Tabris frowned. “It’s a strange, vague feeling that I can’t seem to pinpoint and it comes to me only during certain fleeting moments."

Anders concentrated on his surroundings but could feel nothing. "I'm not getting anything, Commander."

"Perhaps I’m imagining it then." said Tabris dismissively with a shrug. "But enough about me; are you sure you’re all right?”

“Much better now that my flatulence had been dealt with.”

Tabris nodded absently and scratched his head. “Sure,” He sounded mildly unconvinced.  

“The nightmares are normal, you know.” Tabris’ words cut through the fogginess in Anders’ mind, blunt. Anders was taken completely by surprise.

“I didn’t say anything about…”

“I couldn’t sleep for the first few months once I became a Warden.” A pause ensued as Tabris gazed upon Anders, as though assessing his reaction. “I know what it can feel like, and you can talk to me about it anytime if you want.”

A beat of silence passed once again.

“It wasn’t a… Warden nightmare.”

“I’ll still listen.”

“Why would you?” The words came out before he could stop himself. Anders cursed inwardly; he hadn’t intended to sound so bitter.

“Because all Wardens feel that way sometimes. Like there’s no one in the world who knows exactly how you feel. You think that no one can ever understand you or share your despair as you slowly feel your blood getting corrupted. Or you imagine if anyone appreciates the sacrifices that we are forced to make. Or you wonder if you’re transforming into a monster like the very darkspawn you’ve sworn to kill. But as real as those feelings can be, I don’t think it’s true.”

“I… don’t know what to say.”

“Then we can both languish in the state of not knowing what to say in my room. It’ll be fun,” Tabris grinned, warm and open as he reached for Anders’ right hand, startling him. For some reason, Anders found that he did not dislike the touch. Tabris had warm hands, Anders thought as he was led into Tabris’ room, and there was something inherently nostalgic, childlike about that touch. As they stepped in, Tabris turned towards Anders, his face growing soft.

“I’m sorry, did I make you uncomfortable?” He released his grip from Anders’ hand abruptly. “I didn’t realise; it’s something very instinctual to me, growing up in the alienage.”

 “No,” Anders reassured him with a rueful smile. Had his expression been that hesitant? “It just reminded me of my childhood, that’s all. I grew up in a farming village in the Southern side of Ferelden. When I was a child, I had a group of friends; we used to hang out together and got into all sorts of trouble. One of them would drag me by the hand and we would commit all kinds of mischief: steal bread, break windows. Those sorts of things.”   

Tabris smiled gently. “Sounds like what we had in the alienage. Except I was probably the instigator encouraging everyone else on.” He sat on his bed, and then patted the spot beside him in invitation.

“Oh but I was the ring-leader in many ways too; I was just lazy at pranks.” Anders sat beside Tabris, his shoulders relaxing.

“How did you become popular then?”

“Knitting!” Anders noticed a smirk emerging from Tabris’ mouth and hurriedly added, “I’m serious! I wormed myself into the hearts of others through the magical powers of needles and yarn. You’ll be surprised how much people will love you when you give them mittens for winter.”

“You’ll make an excellent old lady then, living in a hut with twenty seven cats. Where did you get your knitting skills from?”

“My mother; she taught me everything I ever need to know in taking care of myself. Cooking, sewing, the likes. I could not have survived on the roads without what she had taught me. What about your mother, Tabris?”

“You called me by my name again.” Tabris gave a gentle smile.

“-I’m sorry… I shouldn’t…”

“No, I want you to call me by my name again in future.” Tabris said firmly, placing his hand on Anders’ lap. “As for my mother; well she’s hardly the maternal type. That would have been my father. My mother was the one who taught me how to fight, and steal, so I guess it all works out. The city guards often marked her as a troublemaker, but everything she did, she did to protect our own people, and to stand up to the shemlen.”

“Shemlen?”

“That’s what elves call humans; in a negative way I guess.” Tabris smiled wryly. “When I was sixteen however, she was killed by a city guard. She saw the guards mistreating a city elf. They were roughing him up because they thought he stole something from the marketplace. It was kind of stupid actually; Derrick could not have stolen a leaf from the alienage tree if he’d tried. He didn’t grow up right in the head, and so when my mom saw what was happening, she warned them to back away but they took their swords against her and killed her.”

Anders was horrified. “That’s…” He could not even find the words to express how he felt. 

“Horrible,” said Tabris with a shrug. “But we’re used to it. It’s a strange thing to get used to; to have this mental preparation that your father might not return home safely because he was accosted by a human who was offended by his presence. When it came to my mother… Father always said she should have left him alone; to keep our heads down whenever any humans were around. Whenever there’s something stolen or a problem in the city, the elves are always the first to be blamed, so we’re often a common target for the guards even if we did not commit the crime.”

“Tell me you did something! To the guards at least?”

“What could we do? In the past there were no avenues for elves to seek recourse through the law. The shemlen don’t take us seriously, aside from the Chantry, and the Chantry only does that because they want converts. We could kill the guards, but then they’d get replaced, and soon you realise that they all have the same mentality towards elves as criminals and thieves. And there’s no way we could kill all of them. But King Alistair converted the alienage into a bannage last year, so things are starting to come around. But I’m sure as a mage who used to live in the Tower, you probably experienced the same difficulties we did. What with how hard it is to press charges against the templars.”

“In the tower it’s slightly different.” Anders shook his head. “There are multiple mage factions split within the Circle, and the faction with the most power believes that mages should be tied down and controlled. Of course, they are the most powerful because they have the backing of the Templar-Commander, but they often work together with the templars to pass rules that prevent us from studying this branch of magic, or from working outside the Circle. All First Enchanters are usually chosen from that faction.”

“So they co-opt the mages in control of the Circle?”

“They do. I felt trapped, and lonely within the Circle, but worst of all, I couldn’t stand the hypocrisy within the Circle’s hierarchy. I would rather be dead than consider them my brothers and sisters.” Anders replied, surprised at the bitterness that came out in his voice. He had always striven to keep it interior; disguised it with wit so it would seem less forbearing. “The senior mages would often work together with our oppressors and pretend that what the templars were doing were justifiable. The templars control everything. They solely control the right to use the Rite of Tranquillity on any mage that they deem unruly, and just before my Harrowing, they’d used it to silence dissent among factions who wanted independence from the Chantry. What was even more horrible was the First Enchanter. He’d never challenged the Templar-Commander’s use of the Rite of Tranquillity before.” 

“Is that why you escaped from the Circle every chance that you got?”

“Yeah! The punishments are the worst when you’re caught, but it was worth it I guess.” Anders let out a laugh. “You know, I was locked in solitary confinement for a year after my previous escape. I swear I still get a little edgy every time I see a box.”

“A… full year? That’s barbaric!”

“Well now it wasn’t all that bad. I had a cat for company: Mr. Wiggums. Well he wasn’t my cat. He was the tower’s mouser, but he took a liking to me. There were days when that stupid cat was the only person I saw. Except for it not being a person. Still, I liked him. Poor Mr. Wiggums.”

“Why “poor Mr. Wiggums””?

“He became possessed by a rage demon – but he did take out three templars. I was never more proud. A toast to Mr. Wiggums then; may he forever eat mice in the Fade!”

“A toast,” agreed Tabris, laughing.

And so, Anders found himself talking to Tabris about his legendary escape attempts, his adventures in Ferelden, Circle politics and how those tied in with the Chantry. Tabris on the other hand, was a good listener who reciprocated by sharing his personal insights from living in the slums of Denerim. Anders found himself unexpectedly engaged with Tabris’ recount of alienage life, and how much it was characterised by oppression ingrained in the day-to-day operations and public opinions. And the resemblance to the Chantry oppression of the Circle was striking. For some reason, Anders felt as though Tabris genuinely _understood_ the extent of his oppression in the Circle, on a level no one had reached before. Before he knew it, they had talked for hours and Anders realised that he had never felt so relaxed and comfortable in anyone’s presence. In fact, Anders was so engaged in the story of his narrow escape from the templars in Denerim that he had not realised that hours had passed and Tabris had dozed off, until he felt the gentle pressure of Tabris’ head on his shoulder.

Anders repositioned his hand and tried to shift his head in a delicate manner, in an attempt not to wake Tabris up. Inevitably, Tabris’ hair brushed against Anders’ stubble, which felt strangely pleasing to him. Like a rustle of a breeze through magnolia-coloured leaves. For some inexplicable reason, Anders found himself smiling foolishly. And very foolishly relaxed. As he tried to close his eyes, he realized Tabris was so close that he could catch his masculine scent. Anders had slept with enough women to know that no two women carried the same scent, and the same was probably true for men. Each person’s fragrance was unique and the one floating through his nostrils now smelled like cut grass and freshly-squeezed lemons. And it was making his stomach flutter with all sorts of funny feelings.

Anders was not sure how long he sat there, with Tabris lying on his shoulder. Eventually, as he slowly closed his eyes, Anders found himself strangely moved – by an abstract notion that clung onto Tabris’ sleeping image: the notion of some infinite gentleness that reminded Anders of his childhood. It was almost as though he could feel Tabris’ energy, feel Tabris’ presence in a tangible way, and it was an energy that moved in a tranquil manner, like the river currents of a meadow spring. Not knowing fully why he wished to continue lingering in Tabris’ presence, Anders laid in that position for as long as he could, before he too succumbed to the allure of sleep. And this time, no nightmares returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tabris’ description of the alienage was inspired by the continued police brutality against the black community in America. 
> 
> Old lady with twenty seven cats is a reference to That’s So Raven. 
> 
> Description of Anders feeling moved was from Eliot’s Preludes:  
> I am moved by fancies that are curled  
> Around these images, and cling:  
> The notion of some infinitely gentle  
> Infinitely suffering thing.


	6. Shadow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some clarifications especially for people who have not played the game:
> 
> 1) Lying north of Ferelden are the Free Marches, which is a group of independent city-states comprised of barbarian descendants. The three biggest cities of the Free Marches are Kirkwall, Starkhaven and Tantervale. Nathaniel Howe was squired in Starkhaven for years until he returned to Amaranthine to confront Tabris, and at the beginning of Dragon Age 2, Anders would eventually leave Amaranthine for Kirkwall. 
> 
> 2) In Dragon Age Awakening, there are three specialisations if the Warden picks a rogue class: Assassin, Bard and an expansion-exclusive class termed Shadow, which allows the rogue to reach a near-invisible state. In this fanfic, Tabris is pursuing the Shadow specialisation, but it’s hard for me to portray this believably with respect to rogues who have no magical ability to achieve this specialisation, and the canonical explanation of the shadow class is so vague that it provides no clue on how a rogue might achieve such skills. As such, I’m rewriting the origin of the Shadow specialisation in a way that is still highly canonical.

The soft rustling of bedsheets made Anders stir in his sleep. Half-dazed and determined not to be pulled from the comfort of his slumber, Anders rolled over clumsily with his mouth stretched open in blissful drowsiness. He regretted doing so once he felt the warm slap of sunlight against his left cheek, so he rolled further and further until he pushed an ambiguous object off the bed. Anders smiled to himself as he discovered a perfect toastiness on the bed in the place of whatever said object was. But his self-satisfaction was short-lived, as an unpleasant yell rudely awakened him.

“What the heck!” Tabris was getting to his feet by the bed.

“Yes, mom?” Anders struggled to pry his eyes open and sat up groggily.

“You pushed me out of my bed, you idiot!”

Oh. Anders bolted fully upright, eyes flying open. He was awake now, and it didn’t take too long for him to register how the books strewn across the room, the luxurious double-mattress bed, the green canopy above his head, and Tabris’ fuming face all indicated that this was not his room. Thinking quickly, Anders slammed his body back on the mattress and to Tabris’ surprise, deliberately rolled off the bed. Unfortunately, he misjudged the distance and so he thudded his head against the bedside table as his hipbone rather unceremoniously met the floor.

“There.” Anders smiled hopefully. “We’re even now? Ow…” Anders rubbed his head injury and exaggerated his wince, directing his pitiful gaze straight at Tabris.

Tabris’ frown wavered even as a look of amused concern flickered across his green eyes. “I rear a mabari, so those puppy eyes have no effect on me, Anders.”

Without thinking, Anders stood up and went full charm-offensive. “How about now?” Anders grinned as he gently bumped a finger against Tabris’ nose in a brief moment of spontaneity. A small spark seemed to spread itself through his body as the tip of his finger met the smoothness of Tabris’ skin. “Ouch.” Anders gritted his teeth as his right hip protested with a dull pain.

“Here, take a seat.” Tabris said as his look of concern broke into a reluctantly fond smile. “You, are simply impossible.”

“So you’re not angry at me anymore?” Anders laughed as he directed healing energy from his hands to the soreness in his hip.

“Well what were you doing in my room anyways?” Tabris mused, voice still rough from sleep.

It was probably rhetorical, but it was too great an opportunity to pass up. “You mean you don’t remember? But you said last night was the most beautiful night of your life.” Anders replied with visible hurt in his eyes.

Tabris’ expression was priceless. “Oh Maker. This is horrible; I didn’t want it to end up like this.” Tabris released a low moan as he pressed a palm to his forehead. “I must have been drunk or…” His eyes slowly focused on a madly grinning Anders who shielded his face with his hands.

“Please don’t hit the face! I’m too pretty to be hit.” 

Tabris narrowed his eyes and pushed Anders against the mattress. He hovered above the laughing mage, bathed in the orange glow of daybreak, until his scowl slowly gave way to a determined smirk. “I’ll remember this, Anders. I swear when your guard is at the lowest…”

Tabris’ face was so close to his that Anders could feel his sweet breath wafting onto his cheek, and smell his grass-scented hair.

At that precise moment came two polite knocks from the door. Tabris’ eyes widened, and he winced once they heard the turn of the door knob. Before Tabris and Anders could rearrange themselves in a less compromising position, Veron entered the room dressed in a royal scarlet doublet.

“Commander, Ser Oghren and Nathaniel are…” Veron stopped in mid-sentence as his gaze fell on what _had_ to look exactly like a failed courtship ritual. “My apologies, Commander. I didn’t know you were entertaining guests.” Veron bowed his head while averting his eyes. Anders cursed silently under his breath. Well, at least both of them were dressed.

“Mud-wrestling, Veron,” said Tabris with a straight face, as he got off the bed. “Just showing Anders how we do it back in the alienage.” Anders would have laughed at the awkwardness of the situation if not for the fact that, well, it was awkward.

“Of course, Commander.” Veron’s tone was as flaccid as Anders’ willy at this point.

“You were saying earlier?”

“Both Ser Oghren and Nathaniel are ready for departure to Knotwood Hills, Commander. They await both Ser Anders’ and your presence to join them. Shall I tell them to wait further?” Veron’s eyes were still averted, though they now bore a distinct hard glint.

“We’ll be down shortly in fifteen minutes. And Veron?”

“Yes, Commander?” 

“Don’t tell anyone about… what you saw.”

“Your attempts at mud-wrestling are safe with me, Ser.”

 

* * *

 

Anders felt bad when he entered the Great Hall with Tabris, and saw that Oghren, Nathaniel and the butler father-son pair were already present – waiting. The scowl on Oghren’s face made Anders immediately feel more apologetic, but only until he remembered that he did not like the ale-washed dwarven drunk in the first place; so that made it moderately okay.

“Commander,” Varel said profusely. “Your expedition to Knotwood Hills is ready, Ser. We’ve saddled enough food supplies for four days onto your horses and an elite army contingent is ready to move out at your command.”

“A contingent?” Tabris gave a visible wince. “It’s just an investigation, Varel. Not an invasion.”

“I’m sure King Alistair would not be pleased if anything untoward were to happen to his Chancellor, my Commander.”

“I understand. But this arling is under scrutiny all around Thedas and every decision made is under the close watch of both ally and enemy alike,” Tabris pointed out. “Amaranthine is the first ever arling to be bestowed to the Grey Wardens. Wardens own land and command fealty from lesser nobles; it sets a precedent like no other.

"If this arling succeeds, it will be an example to other kingdoms – that Wardens are important, Blight or not." Tabris continued. "Word sent from Weisshaupt encouraged us not to use any of Alistair’s troops beyond defensive or any necessary purpose; at least to give the impression that we’re self-sustaining. As all arlings are supposed to be.”  

Nathaniel was sitting by the table with one leg drawn up on the chair, an arm slung lazily over his knee. “You think there might be spies around the Keep, if what you’re saying is true?”

“There may be,” replied Tabris evasively. “In fact, I daresay I’ll be mildly offended if Orlais has not sent any.”

Nathaniel remained silent, but Anders noticed he took a quick glance at Veron before avoiding all eye contact.

“But Commander, Knotwood Hills is not known to be friendly towards travellers and…”

“Varel, I know our Commander doesn’t look like it; in fact I had to constantly remind myself that he’s not still in school. But let’s think about it.” Anders said brightly as he placed both his hands on the seneschal’s back and massaged it gently. “That elf over there killed an Archdemon. And survived. Do you really think anything can hurt him?”

“Well…” Varel muttered, nonplussed. “I can see that I’m in the minority here. I’ll tell the soldiers that they are not needed then.”

“Anders?” Veron shot suddenly. Anders closed his eyes and winced. The black haired butler was the last person he wanted to see after what happened in the morning.

“Yes, handsome?” Anders said, forcing his grimace into what he presumed was a passable smile.

Veron frowned at the response but quickly recovered. “The Commander made a requisition for a new staff a few days ago. It has just arrived from the Circle of Magi this morning, along with the Circle’s ambassador.”

Anders turned sharply to Tabris, who gave a mild shrug. “Can’t have our new resident healer using a walking stick, can we?”

Anders reached behind himself and traced his fingers over his wooden staff. Tabris was right. Some portions of the bark had become gnarled and colored in several parts, and the staff had grown brittle after repeated exposure to sweat, blood and the elements. Anders felt a slight pang of guilt in his chest at the realization of how much he’d been mistreating his staff.

“Thank you.” Anders said simply.

“It’s nothing, Anders.” Tabris smiled. Turning to Veron, he said, “I should probably welcome the ambassador. Seems a little rude if I run off without saying anything.”

“I’m afraid we don’t have the time, Commander. My father would like to see you to sign off on several logistical issues, and we are losing enough daybreak as it is. With your permission, I can bring Anders to the ambassador, collect the staff and by the time we’re done, we can set off on the expedition.”

Tabris paused. “You’re right,” he replied. “Give the ambassador my apologies and tell her I’ll give her a full tour of the Keep myself when we’re back.”

“Yes, Commander.” Veron bowed.

It was an uncomfortable walk to the second storey with the seneschal’s son. Veron seemed intent on avoiding all eye contact with Anders and was walking at a faster pace than usual. And every time Anders thought to raise something humorous to break the ice, a glance at Veron’s facial expression dissuaded him from doing so. When they reached the ambassador’s room, Anders was struck by its familiarity to the Circle. It smelled of musky lyrium, infused with powdered herbs. He could almost _feel_ the magic that was in the air; the light humming of runes that buzzed around his ears, the soft glow of crystal orbs that surrounded the enchanting table, and the stench of stale elfroot, a smell reminiscent of horse pee. As the auburn-haired elven woman in the middle of the room rose to her feet, Anders raised his head to a most welcoming sight: a long forgotten friend dressed in red and green.

“My apologies, Ambassador Cera.” Veron gave a formal bow. “The Commander has to attend to this morning’s expedition and will provide a full, formal welcome when he returns.”

“That’s quite alright,” Cera released a light mirthful laugh that felt like music to Anders’ ears. As she faced Anders, there was a mischievous glint to her eyes and she offered him a wide, warm smile. “At least I get to see Anders before he departs.”

“Cera!” Anders stepped forward and embraced the elven mage. “What are you doing here?”

“Diplomacy, Anders.” said Cera as she returned the embrace affectionately. “The Circle has always honored its contractual agreements with the Wardens, even if those date back three hundred years ago. Besides, from what I hear, the Keep also needs an enchanter and a runesmith. But I’d be lying if I said that my reasons for coming here do not include you.”

“Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes! I never thought I’d see anyone from the Circle anymore.” It had been years since he had last seen Cera, and Anders immediately noticed that she had grown taller and leaner, her body more delicately made. Her bosom however, did not seem to have grown since the last time he had seen her.

Veron narrowed his eyes. “You knew each other in the Circle?”

“Oh I _knew_ Anders very well,” said Cera as she eyed Anders suggestively. “And he knew me very well too. And half of the Tower’s female population.”

Anders released a sudden cough. “Well Cera is exaggerating of course. We were merely fellow classmates in our Restoration classes.”

Veron gave them another disapproving glance by way of response. “The staff if you may, Ambassador?”

“Of course.” Cera wiped her grin off her face and handed to Anders a metallic pale staff leaning against the right corner of the room. Anders took the staff. He felt a sudden warmth in his fingers. When he channelled a light healing spell, nothing could have prepared him for what happened next. The dizzying rush of green energy; the roar in his ears.

As Anders regained his balance, he gave the staff a small twirl. It was surprisingly light and resilient. He gripped the staff tighter as he closed his eyes, he could almost sense the subtle vibrations of the Fade engraved within the metallic compound, an energy that felt both ethereal and amorphous all at once. It was not until Anders turned the staff over that he saw three amplifying runes attached to its tail-end. 

“This staff is pretty amazing,” Anders whispered. “How could metal be so light?” To prove his point, Anders twirled the simple-looking staff using only his fingers. As he looked triumphantly at Cera, he lost his grip and the staff fell to the floor with a sharp clang.

Cera eyed Anders in amusement as he hastily picked it up. “White steel; the best money could buy.” she said, as she read off a parchment lying on her table. “The steel is also engraved with rune markings that boost restoration and elemental magic. Seems like whoever ordered this staff knows you pretty well, Andy… and has quite a few purses to burn through.”

Anders nodded. “He’s all right I guess.” Between Veron’s obvious scowl and Cera’s openly affectionate gaze, Anders found himself trapped between awkward diplomacy and jumping out the window.

“A word if you may, Ser Anders?” Without waiting for a response, Veron walked out the room, causing Anders to offer an apologetic shrug to Cera as he followed him.

As Veron stood waiting on the granite stairway, Anders could almost feel foreboding and a certain animosity radiating from him. His voice, however, was as cold as the granite they stood on, with no hint of the fiery resentment Anders knew Veron was holding against him somehow.

“Forgive my bluntness, Ser Anders. I have no idea how else to say this, so I’m going to make this simple and direct. For the sake of the Grey Wardens and Vigil’s Keep, I must insist that you end your dalliances with the Commander.”

Anders wrinkled his nose. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what you’re on about.”

“You drop romantic and sexual suggestions worse than a bard at a bordello, Ser Anders. You even tried to seduce me yesterday, even though you’ve mentioned that you’re not attracted to men. If that was true, I’d question if your intentions towards the Commander are indeed honourable.”

“Hold on, wait up.” Anders raised his hands, palms open. “The Commander and I are just friends, there’s absolutely nothing going beyond that.”

“But he does not know that, Ser Anders.” The seneschal’s son replied quietly. “I have attended to him for a year and he does not take lightly to anyone spending the night with him, even if last night’s encounter, as he claimed, was chaste.”

“You bet it was chaste; I assure you, no one had to take off our clothes when we did our mud-wrestling,” said Anders with a straight face. “Come on, Vernie, there’s honestly nothing on going between the Commander and me; we just enjoy each other’s company and…”

“Then you are not just blind, Ser Anders. You are willfully blind. The way he looks at you is not the same way he looks at others. And you play no small part in sustaining that misguided perception. Stop denying that you lead people on, and stop pretending you did nothing.”

Anders did not know how to respond to that.

“I know people like you, Ser Anders. Sweet-tongued, seductive charmers who are careless with their affections. They lie among good-willed, honest folk where they pollute friendliness with false passions, and stir up false hope of loving sentiment when there is none. They hurt things and people and then retreat back into their smug seduction, their vast carelessness, or whatever it is that keeps them together, and let other people clean up the mess they have made. People like me.”

As Veron leaned closer, Anders could see that all traces of civility had disappeared from his unyielding, unflinching stare. “The Commander does not deserve to be strung along on empty affections, Ser Anders. He deserves something more than you.”

 

* * *

 

“You seemed more relaxed out in the open, Nathaniel.”

“I like the open fields, Commander. It’s one reason why I stayed away from Amaranthine all these years. The Keep gets a little stuffy after a while.”

“It can be.” Tabris agreed. “But isn’t Starkhaven more opulent and, forgive my bluntness, more pretentious than Ferelden? They place fish and eggs in _pies_. And pie dough already requires _eggs_. I mean for Maker’s sake, when will these people stop?”

Nathaniel released a low chuckle. “They also add fruits in the fish and egg pies, Commander.”

Tabris’ face darkened. “Food like this is the true key to the barbaric nature of the Free Marchers. People who can eat such food are capable of anything.”

After Anders’ disastrous conversation with the seneschal’s son, the Wardens had loaded their bags, saddled their mounts, and adjusted the reins to fit their grasps. To make matters worse, Anders appeared to be the only Warden who was stuck with a stead that didn’t like him. She was a black mare who bit Anders as he tried to approach her, and kept tossing her head and releasing disgruntled snorts and whinnies every few miles they took. A few hours into the road and both Tabris and Nathaniel had settled into easy conversation. No one seemed interested to engage Oghren in banter, and Anders found himself remaining at the rear of the group, as he struggled to master the art of horseback riding with an uncooperative, disagreeable horse. Anders cursed inwardly. It hadn’t even been nightfall and his thigh muscles were sore. Every now and then, the mage found himself shifting uncomfortably in his saddle to make room for his swollen balls. Taking a deep breath, Anders reminded himself that Wardens didn’t get to have children anymore, so any horseback-riding-inflicted damage to his testicles would not affect anything that had already been affected.

Remembering the conversation he’d had with Veron, he sighed heavily. Perhaps it was just as well that he’d remained far behind the others, allowing the distance to increase as his thoughts grew more troubled. As much as he hated to admit it, Veron had gotten to him. Every word that Veron had said had held bite, and pierced through where it hurt the most. That he was flirtatious, no. That he was irresponsible, however…… It was not that Anders had never thought about the consequences of his flirting. But he had always assumed that it was all in good fun, and everyone knew that. His flirtatious nature was merely an extension of his natural character, much like how he found Oghren’s grumpiness and Tabris’ sincerity to be extensions of their own characters. And yes, he wasn’t always sexually interested in the people he flirted with, but the chase itself was fun, was it not? Yet now, here he was, in a position where he would let down the first person whom he trusted and felt comfortable with in ages.

Could... Veron be right?

Anders tried to find balance within the saddle and closed his eyes. Strangely, Tabris’ friendly smile flashed before him, bringing a strange sense of peace to his mind. He recalled the way Tabris had spoken to him, the way he would unconsciously reach up and brush his hair back when he was around Anders. The warmth of Tabris’ hand last night as it held his. His goofy and lopsided smile when he pinned Anders against the bed. And the way his hair had felt when he’d laid his head on Anders’ shoulders the night before. Anders felt his shoulders shudder with a foreign sensation as he recalled the recent events.

No one had ever reached out to him in such a way before, and certainly not a man. Most female mages were interested only in his appearance and charm, but his runs-in with the wrong side of the Chantry and the ubiquitous presence of the templars in the Circle had made them too afraid to come very close. But Tabris – Tabris was the first who had ever made him feel like he was at home. Like he was welcome, and every gesture and conversation they’d shared had felt like the most natural thing in the world.

The group soon ascended a steep hill, a sure sign that the Knotwood Hills were nearing. They dismounted, which Anders was only too happy to do, and it didn’t take long for everyone to reach the top of the hill, coming to a stop where the ground finally levelled off, and finding a sturdy bridge made of stone about twenty feet away.

Just as Tabris began to head for the bridge, a sudden rustling in the bushes off to one side of the plateau caught Anders’ attention. Glancing around on heightened alert, his hand immediately moved to the hilt of his staff. He saw that Tabris and Nathaniel had also tensed, and were scanning the area suspiciously.

“What? What? ”Oghren demanded, readying his axe.

“Something’s in the bushes.” Tabris’ usual easy smile was gone, and he kept his hands close to the pair of black-handled knives tucked into his belt.         

“Over there,” Nathaniel confirmed, signalling with his eyes toward the brush to his left and already nocking an arrow on his bow.

Before Anders could assume a defensive position, a dozen darkspawn leapt from the brush all around the Wardens. Their melee weapons were drawn, and their faces twisted in a sickening snarl. “Charge!” screamed an armored genlock, which prompted battle cries from the blighted warriors as they charged forward.

Anders did not take long to recover from the initial surprise of the ambush. He gripped his staff tightly felt the immediate, strong surge of magic coursing through the steel.  A fan of ice sprayed from his new staff, freezing two of the hurlocks where they stood. A third threw his arm up to block the supernatural cold, letting out a high-pitched shriek as frozen blood erupted from his veins in crimson icicles.

Taken aback at his staff’s destructive capabilities, he turned his attention to Oghren and saw the embattled dwarf kicking the hurlock first to reach him in the chest with incredible force. The darkspawn flew backwards with a sharp crack and roar of pain, and Anders winced, knowing that it now had quite a few broken ribs. Suddenly, a steel arrow pierced through its skull and Nathaniel turned and drew another three arrows on his bow, raining a volley of death towards the genlock archers several feet away.

As the battle raged on, Anders focussed all his attention on maintaining the protective ward around the Wardens, which repelled all arrows and magical projectiles. So deep was his concentration that he did not notice the three shrieks which had come up behind him. A flash of metal and a blinding pain in the side of his stomach. Anders recoiled. Looking down, he saw blood gushing out of a deep gash at his side. The ward broke. Leaning on his staff, he looked up and saw the shrieks surrounding him. As they raised their blades, he heard Nathaniel call out his name in panic, but he was too far away. He closed his eyes as he anticipated the final blow.

It was like a sudden whirlwind, an apparition as Tabris _materialised_ behind the shrieks and plunged his daggers into two backs. The darkspawns’ bodies froze upon the impact, and then went limp as they collapsed. The remaining shriek yelled and swiped instinctively at Tabris, who only vanished out of sight again, as easily as he’d appeared. Anders could not believe his eyes, and apparently, neither did the shriek, who was now frantically trying to locate the missing elf. Suddenly, Tabris re-emerged from behind the shriek and in one swift motion, stabbed the darkspawn in the neck.

“Drink.” Tabris commanded, as he passed a red health vial to Anders. Anders consumed the potion immediately. As he gazed up at Tabris, there was no mistaking it. His eyes... his entire body was hard to focus upon, as though it was blurring between reality and the Fade. And then as sudden as he appeared, he flickered out of existence.

There would be time for questioning later. As the health potion took effect, Anders’ mind cleared and he refocused his attention on the battle. Although weakened, he managed to pull enough energy from the Fade to stagger the remaining darkspawn, enough for Nathaniel and Oghren to pull off their finishing blows. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tabris once again appearing from nowhere and executing a backstab on the remaining hurlock mage. This time, he caught a clearer glimpse of Tabris' figure, outlined in a moonlight blue light.

It was over. The wardens sheathed their weapons warily. Anders gingerly touched the edges of his wound and found the deep gash still there, his fingers coming away wet with blood. After he had directed healing at that region, Tabris approached him and examined his wound carefully. “It doesn’t look too bad. It hurts now, but the wound will close in a few days.” He said with a slight, protracted smile, the strange aura that surrounded him was gone. 

“Calenhad’s crown!” Nathaniel spat out, his face astonished. “You… disappeared! In battle!”

 “He’s a rogue. They are good at stealthing. It’s what they do.” Oghren remarked sourly.

“Not like that! You crouch, or walk softly; anything to reduce the likelihood of being seen. He just vanished into thin air! Commander, how did you do that?” Nathaniel demanded incredulously.

Tabris coughed. “Long story, really. Do we really have time for it?”

“Sun’s going down. We might as well set up camp here.” Anders raised, hopeful.

Tabris shot Anders a disappointed look as if betrayed, which made Anders regret the suggestion a little, but he shrugged his shoulders in response.

“Fine.” Their Commander’s tone was sullen and disgruntled, now. “Let’s set up camp here and we can talk later.”

 

* * *

 

Some time later, as the orange sunset crept steadily under the trees, Oghren stood shivering on one side of the hastily-made fire pit with his hands stretched out to the flames and his eyes fixed with heavy suspicion on the bubbling pot Anders had set on a flat rock at the very edge of the fire. Anders had been assigned cooking duty while the rest of the Wardens were busy pitching up tents. “What’s that?” Oghren sniffed.

“Stew. I like stew.” Anders hummed, stirring the contents of the pot with a long-handled wooden spoon.

“You mean soup.” Nathaniel weighed in, as he too, peered dubiously into the pot.

“No. Stew.”

“Your ‘stew’ looks watery. In Ferelden, that’s called soup.”

“Well, there’s loads of savoury meat in it. Where I come from, it’s called stew.”

“Or you can call it meat soup.”

Anders released his grip on the wooden spoon and glared at the both of them. “Tell me, Ser Wardens, why are the both of you being this disagreeable this late in the evening?"

Oghren looked at him with one raised eyebrow. “It’s called false advertising, Anders. I think you might have been spending too much time in the company of one particular rogue.”

As if on cue, Tabris was now walking up to them too. “What are all of you talking about?”

“Would anyone else like to register complaints about my cooking?” Anders asked in a loud voice. “Let’s gather all of them right now.”

 They all stared at him. Tabris was the first to break the silence. “I was about to say that anything you cook will be delicious, Anders. Precisely because it’s being cooked by you.”

It was entirely earnest, not sarcastic, and Anders stared back at his commander, suddenly feeling both moved and guilty. Veron’s words still echoed in his mind, and he only managed to stop dwelling on them when dinner finally began.

“So Commander, the story of how you disappeared off the battlefield, if you please.” Nathaniel asked.

“How’s the stew?” Anders asked, perhaps a little insistently.

“It’s amazing, Anders.” Tabris’ face broke into a wide grin, causing Anders’ chest to fill with a warmth that rivalled that of the campfire. Turning back to Nathaniel, Tabris replied, “Back when we were requesting an alliance with the Dalish during the Blight, we stumbled upon the ruins of an elven sanctuary in the Brecilian Forest. Extensive corridors, sprawling catacombs, elven tombs, the like.”

“I have heard of many forgotten ruins in the Brecilian Forest, though legend has it that it was plagued with enchantments to beguile the curious traveller, and haunted by werewolves and demons alike.” Nathaniel whispered.

“Oh yeah. We dispelled the enchantment, broke the werewolf curse and got rid of the blood mages living in the forest,” replied Tabris off-handedly, helping himself to seconds from the iron pot.

“Show-off.” Anders gave Tabris’ shoulder a friendly nudge. “So what did those ruins look like?”

Tabris paused and concentrated. “It… resembled Tevinter architecture. Circular domes, hex-shaped carvings. I know it sounds weird, for an elven sanctuary to resemble human buildings, but when we entered the ruins we saw both elven and human ghosts.”

“Are you saying that there was a time in Ferelden when humans and elves coexisted?” Anders asked intently.

“It would have to have been a time before Ferelden itself existed, but I suspect so, yes. Anyway, I found a phylactery of an elf, whose soul or memories – I’m not really sure what it was, had been bound to it. It told me that he used to be part of an elven order that manipulated Fade energies, or magic, to augment their rogue skills.” Tabris' voice dropped lower, almost in slight reverance. “They were a group of ancient elven rogues called the Shadow."

"That doesn't sound creepy at all," quipped Anders.

Tabris shrugged his shoulders. "From what I understand, they used to be an elite order of assassins, answerable to members of the elven royal family. I've been researching on the order for a year and almost nothing came up. Whatever little information I've found is unfortunately in Elvish which I know nothing about, and only passed down in oral tradition by a few Dalish Keepers." 

“Anyways, the phylactery craved release because its soul had been trapped in that glass vial for centuries. It offered to teach me what was left of its skills in return for its destruction. So I did.”

“That’s all?” Anders asked. “What if it’d been a demon impersonating… that thing? You could have been possessed!”

“The way he fell on the floor and squirmed certainly convinced many of us that he was.” Oghren intoned darkly.

“I did ask the mages in my party then. They didn’t sense any demonic energies radiating from the phylactery and it didn’t feel malevolent in any sense.” Tabris said as he fell into a pensive silence.

“Are you all right?”

“I just recalled something. The phylactery also revealed that the sanctuary had been destroyed by ‘a terrible presence.’ I saw faint images of humans and elves running away from a shadowy darkness. Even when I left the building, I could still feel remnants of that darkness, traces of it around the ruins.” 

“Is it possible for me to learn these skills?” Nathaniel asked eagerly.

Tabris shook his head. “I doubt so. The Shadow discipline can only be learnt by elves. We have an affinity to the Fade that humans don’t.”

“So the disappearance that happened?”

“It was me as I moved in and out of the Fade. That was the traditional way Shadow rogues stealthed themselves. But I can’t stay there for prolonged periods of time; to be honest, it takes a huge toll on your stamina and endurance.”

Oghren took a huge swallow from his flagon and released a loud belch. “And that was how our Commander defeated the Archdemon. It couldn’t find him. Stabbed dat dragon in dat ass a couple times then ‘e went all invisible on it. When da dragon tried to smell him out, Commander here sliced its nose open and stabbed its neck. Too bad nobody knows the Archdemon was killed by a hide-and-seek game.”

“Doesn’t make it any less heroic, Oghren.” Nathaniel set his bowl down.

The wardens continued talking for some time, though Anders had little to contribute as he processed over the recent revelations that he had just heard. It was slightly overwhelming to process the day's events but as he was about to head back to his tent for an early sleep, Tabris was already by his side, kneeling to examine the wound that had been inflicted upon him earlier.

“You did bring extra clothing, right?” Tabris asked as his fingers hovered over Anders’ skin, the wound visible through the tear in his warden uniform.

“I did.” Anders kept his head down, as he found his face flushing due to the proximity of Tabris’ presence, and the reminder of Veron's conversation.

“Good. The wound… you would have caught the Blight if you weren’t already Grey Warden.” A pause. “I suppose you’ve already healed whatever you could?”

“I have, but gashes this deep usually take awhile to close.”

“Well, thankfully, it looks to be healing up pretty well.” Tabris retrieved a vial of pink essence from his waist pouch. “I’m going to apply this on you, if you don’t mind. It’s a traditional city elf recipe for blade wounds. We…” Tabris’ expression darkened for a moment, “..had loads of experience with sword injuries.”

And in that moment, Anders finally understood what Veron had meant. As he caught Tabris’ softened eyes, he knew that his concern for him was well above that of a commander’s duty toward his soldiers. Both Oghren and Nathaniel had suffered light wounds too, but Tabris had not shown the same level of care, nor become their personalised nurse as he just had for Anders. The relieved expression, the vulnerable, soft demeanour when he was around Anders…

They were all reserved for him.

The realization must have put a strange expression on his face, because Tabris was looking up, concerned. “Is it too painful? I know it smells bad, but my mother always said, never trust any medication that doesn’t smell like sweaty feet.”

And Anders knew he really ought to follow Veron’s advice. He knew he should be clarifying with Tabris that he wasn’t interested in men. He knew that he had to be doing so right about now.

“No, that’s not it, and my feet smell delicious so I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Anders took a deep breath. “C-…Tabris, there’s something I…”

Tabris looked up again, his eyes questioning. The night hung between them like slow anticipation, as stars flickered into the sky and hid behind grey clouds.

Which was also when Anders realised that he hadn’t even decided on how he was going to approach this. Smooth. He panicked. “Urm, well…” Anders glanced around in an attempt to stall for time, looking for the right words to say. But there were no right words he could say, not for this. “I, just –“

He froze, the realization piercing through his cloud of self-doubt in that one precise moment of thought. There were no right words he could say because nothing needed to be said. Whatever it was he had with Tabris, that relationship felt real to him. Romantic or otherwise, there was no need to justify it to anyone else.

And it was a wonderful feeling when he finally allowed himself to relax at that, and thread his hands gently through Tabris’ hair. It was as soft as he remembered, though it did manage to smell mildly of darkspawn blood. “Thank you, Tabris.” Anders said softly, meaning every word. He closed his eyes, hoping somehow that Tabris would not sense the surge of emotions that had swelled within him. 

Tabris merely smiled in acknowledgment and continued applying the essence to his wound. Even though it did sting, physically, Anders was no longer paying attention to the pain. Tabris’ fingers were careful and gentle on his skin, soothing, and Anders was coming to terms with the fact that maybe, just maybe, being in relationship with a man did not seem too bad at all. Especially if it meant being with one particular blond elf who was currently tending to his injury with medicine that smelled distinctly of sweaty feet, with the merry crackle of the campfire still going in front of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line “You are not just blind, you’re wilfully blind!” comes from Jessica Lange in American Horror Story: Coven. 
> 
> The line “They hurt things and people and then retreat back into their smug seduction, their vast carelessness, or whatever it is that keeps them together, and let other people clean up the mess they have made” is from Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby.
> 
> The fish+egg+spiced+fruit pie is canonically a food speciality of Starkhaven. Nope, not making it up. 
> 
> Tabris’ line on egg pies is derived from Zizek’s quip: “German toilets are really the key to the horrors of the Third Reich. People who can build toilets like this are capable of anything.”


	7. An update

Expect an update in the next few weeks or so!


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